


Beneath the Surface

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [90]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Background Relationships, Drug Use, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 49,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: Quentin's pretty sure that the alley he just turned down for his usual shortcut to his favorite froyo placedoesn'topen up onto a field. It should open up onto Thirty-First, as a matter of fact, but.There's far too much sunlight on his face, too little noise, and the scent of people pressing in from every direction has all but vanished. The only traces of the scent of the city, of all the betas and alphas and omegas that he constantly brushes against, are lingering on his coat. Even those are quickly dissipating in the breeze that ruffles his hair, though, and Quentin takes another few steps forward, looking around in awe. He's never seen a place like this before, and the part of him that still clings to the magic of Fillory can't help but wonder if he found his own clock door.The more practical side of him points out that it's more likely he's finally just lost it, in the face of finding his interviewer dead.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Collaborations [90]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	Beneath the Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! So, this is our first Queliot ABO fic, and I just wanted to drop in here and explain the Rape/Non-Con tag:
> 
> You see Mike McCormick in the character list up there? Yeah, he's involved with that. Trying not to get too spoiler-y, but while nothing _actually_ happens, there is a very clear implication that Mike would have taken advantage of Eliot during a very vulnerable time. Mike denies it when Eliot confronts him, but there is the implication, considering his past behavior, that he may be lying.
> 
> Please, dear readers, be careful with yourselves as you venture into the parts of this fic that feature Mike <3

Quentin's pretty sure that the alley he just turned down for his usual shortcut to his favorite froyo place _doesn't_ open up onto a field. It should open up onto Thirty-First, as a matter of fact, but.

There's far too much sunlight on his face, too little noise, and the scent of people pressing in from every direction has all but vanished. The only traces of the scent of the city, of all the betas and alphas and omegas that he constantly brushes against, are lingering on his coat. Even those are quickly dissipating in the breeze that ruffles his hair, though, and Quentin takes another few steps forward, looking around in awe. He's never seen a place like this before, and the part of him that still clings to the magic of Fillory can't help but wonder if he found his own clock door.

The more practical side of him points out that it's more likely he's finally just lost it, in the face of finding his interviewer dead.

There's something at the far end of the field, in front of a magnificent building. As Quentin draws closer, he can just make out the letting on what looks to be a large, stately sign. It says that this place is named _Brakebills,_ which doesn't ring any bell at all for Quentin. But what really catches Quentin's attention is the man lounging on top of the sign like he just walked out of the twenties, or maybe a really fancy private school. "Uh, hello?" Quentin calls, confusion clear in his voice even to him. 

The man sits up and swings his legs gracefully over the side of the stone so that he's facing Quentin, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. In his other hand he holds a small card, which he squints down at through the glare of the afternoon sun. "Quentin Coldwater?"

The sound of his voice saying Quentin's name makes Quentin's heart trip over itself in his chest, doubling the pace when he makes out the man's face. He's a beta, no distinguishing scent to him, but holy _shit,_ Quentin doesn't think he's ever seen someone more attractive. He thinks he can be forgiven for not being able to do anything but stutter, "Uh-huh."

"Hmm." The man hops down from the stone and fucking _towers_ over Quentin, giving him a thorough once-over and unmistakably scenting the air between them. His eyes widen just a fraction, the only sign of his surprise. "An alpha," he says. "Interesting. Come on." And then he turns to stride across the lawn.

It takes a minute for Quentin to get his breath back and kick his brain back into something resembling functional, and by then he has to scramble to catch up with the other man. "Wait, where are we going? Who are you? Where _are_ we?"

"My name is Eliot," the man says. He talks with his hands, the cigarette trailing smoke through the air as he does so. "Where we are is fairly obvious, I thought, given the sign back there. What's going on is that you're late."

"Late for what? And the sign doesn't explain anything, I was just in New York City!"

"Oh, you're still in New York," Eliot tells him breezily. "Just perhaps not quite where you thought you were. You're late for the entrance exam. All will be revealed afterwards - if you pass."

"What the hell are you - " A horrible thought occurs to Quentin, then, and he stumbles to a stop, chest tight. His anxiety rachets up so high that even he can smell the way it sours his scent. "Is this a hallucination?"

Eliot stops dead in the middle of the path, and turns to look at Quentin with something akin to fascination. "If it were, how would asking me help?"

Quentin's face scrunches, and he blows out a breath. "It probably wouldn't," he mutters. "Sorry, uh, keep - leading me to this entrance exam I have no knowledge about, I guess?"

Eliot laughs, bright and delighted. "Oh, you're going to be fun," he says. "Please at least try to keep up."

* * *

Eliot hangs around the exam hall just long enough to ensure that Quentin finds his seat, and then he takes off, his long legs carrying him across campus to the Physical Cottage with ease. Once inside he waves away Todd's excitable greeting and hurries up the stairs to his own room, where he knows Margo is waiting.

Sure enough, she's lounging on his bed looking absolutely flawless, and she raises a single eyebrow when she gets a look at Eliot. To anyone else he would appear his normal, perfectly composed self, but his Bambi knows him well enough to see that he's flustered. Maybe. Just a little.

"Never again," Eliot says, closing the door behind him. "I'm never doing the Meet and Greet thing again. If this one doesn't get in I don't think I'll recover."

Margo rolls her eyes at his dramatics. "He can't be that special."

"He's _adorable_ ," Eliot assures her. "I spoke to him for less than five minutes and I can tell he's a high-strung supernerd. This place will eat him alive."

Margo still doesn't seem impressed. "So you want to watch the carnage? That's more my flavor of vicious, El."

"No," Eliot says, with a laugh that's almost hysterical. "I want to keep his head above water."

 _That_ catches Margo's attention in a way Eliot's other words haven't. "I'm sorry, run that by me again?"

"You heard me," Eliot says. "I don't know. He's helpless and cute, like a little baby bird."

Margo's eyebrow is practically touching her hairline now. "You have never been excessively nurturing a day in your life, and now this beta's turned your head?"

"He's an alpha, actually," Eliot says, and shoots Margo a sour look. "And before you say anything, that has nothing to do with it."

"Oh, really?" Margo asks, though there's a distinct, shit-stirring gleam in her eyes. "I mean, you've never acted like this for anyone else but me, honestly."

Eliot snorts. "Don't act like you'd tolerate this from me, because you wouldn't."

"I wouldn't," Margo agrees easily, "but I'm the only alpha you've ever gotten heart-eyes like this for. Should I be jealous?"

Eliot rolls his eyes. "I do not have _heart-eyes_ ," he says, disdainful. "I just think he's interesting."

"That's practically heart-eyes for you," Margo points out, amused. "But all right. Do you think he'll get in?"

Eliot smiles, because he can't help himself. "Yeah," he says. "I do."

* * *

Eliot doesn't manage to steer Margo's attention away from his interest in the awkward, nerdy alpha currently taking the entrance exam, but Eliot didn't really expect anything else. It at least means that Margo doesn't have much room to give him even more shit when Eliot insists they leave the Cottage to wait outside of the exam hall for Quentin to come out.

"I just want to see if he gets in," he says, as lightly and casually as he can, as they make their way across campus. "It's a matter of curiosity."

"'A matter of curiosity,'" Margo mimics, rolling her eyes as she lounges against the half-wall outside of the room where the prospective first years are taking the entrance exam. "Like you haven't had a gleam in your eye since you floated back into the Cottage."

"Oh, stop reading into it," Eliot says dismissively. "He's kind of cute, sure, but I would _never_."

"You're _twitterpated,_ " Margo says, smirking. If they weren't in public, she might be cackling. 

Eliot gags. "Bitch, please. I resent your implication that biology has anything to do with this. That's just fucking rude."

Margo rolls her eyes, but Eliot knows her well enough to read the apology in the way she kicks idly out at his ankle. "I'm just _saying -_ "

She's interrupted by the doors opening, and a veritable flood of confused first years pours out of the hall. In the very back is a harried-looking Dean Fogg, who's just finished his 'Welcome to Brakebills and Magic' speech, and Margo gives him a cheerful wave over the heads of the crowd. Then, she catches sight of a young man towards the back, who has a dazed look on his face. The jacket is distinctive from Eliot's rambling, and Margo's grin sharpens as she reaches out and plucks him from the crowd. "You must be Quentin," she purrs. 

"Fuck!" Quentin's answer is a yelp as he stumbles, clearly trying to keep his footing without falling straight into Margo's chest. He manages - barely - and then gives Margo a wide-eyed look. "Um. Yes? Who are you?"

"This is Margo," Eliot says, stepping forward to give Quentin a thoughtful smile. "You passed. Well done."

Quentin looks from Margo to Eliot - and Margo's expression turns downright _shark-like_ as she clearly takes in the pleased bloom of Quentin's scent. "Oh, hi, Eliot. Yeah, that was - the weirdest exam I've ever sat for? But I guess I passed, and I'm a Magician? Or at least an untrained one."

"For now," Eliot allows. "You're among friends and teachers here. We'll look after you - won't we, Margo?"

There's a spike of anxiety in Quentin's scent as he turns and catches sight of the predatory look on Margo's face. "Yes, we will," Margo purrs. 

Quentin swallows. "Great?"

"We're giving you a tour," Eliot cuts in smoothly before Margo can respond. "Of the whole campus. Did you already get your dorm assignment?"

"Yeah, I'm in the, um, freshman dorms? But there was talk of some evaluation for a discipline in a few weeks, I don't know what that means."

"It means you'll find out what magic you're inherently good at, and be housed with like-minded people," Eliot tells him. "We're Physical kids. I'm telekinetic and Margo's good with ice. We have all the best parties." 

"Oh." The slightly-overwhelmed look still hasn't faded, even as Margo tucks her hand into the crook of Quentin's arm and practically drags him into movement. "Uh, what other disciplines are there?"

Grinning and taking up position on Quentin's other side, Eliot tells him.

* * *

The first week passes in a whirlwind. Quentin feels like he's barely keeping his head above the water, going to classes, interacting with Eliot and Margo, and meeting Alice, whose sheer determination just... blows Quentin's mind, honestly. 

He's so busy, as a matter of fact, that he hasn't spoken to Julia in more than passing during their shared classes. Internet and phone signals only work in a couple of very specific places on campus, and the only phone is a payphone by the main administrative building. Quentin's phone hasn't died, yet, but he doesn't have any signal, so he can't really do anything with it, including text Julia. But he does manage to catch her after their last class on Friday and agree to meet up with her for dinner at the cafeteria that night. 

He finds a table in a corner, settles in with his back against the wall, and waits, picking at his salad. He doesn't have long to wait before Julia is dropping into the chair next to him with a theatrical groan, plopping her tray down in favor of yanking Quentin into a hug that he readily returns. "Hey, Jules," he says, unable to keep from ducking his head and breathing her familiar, steady alpha scent. 

"Q," Julia sighs, and squeezes him tight before she pulls back, grinning. "How amazing is this? I'm still not over it. We're _Magicians!_ "

"It's pretty fucking amazing," Quentin laughs. "I almost can't believe it's real."

"I'm so sorry we haven't had time to catch up," Julia tells him. "I've just been so... overwhelmed, but like, in the best way. There's so much to learn! Are you loving it?"

"Oh, Christ, I've been just as busy," Quentin laughs. "There's so much to learn about magic and campus, but then every night Margo and Eliot show up and drag me to some party or something one of the discipline groups has put together."

Julia's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "That's who you've been hanging out with?"

"More like... they've been dragging me out to be social?" Quentin shrugs, runs one hand through his hair. "It's not _bad,_ but. Eliot was the one who greeted me, led me to the exam hall on the first day. And then he and Margo just kinda... decided I was their shiny new toy, I guess?"

"I've heard about them," Julia admits. "I'm not entirely sure they're good people, Q."

"Eliot's okay," Quentin says thoughtfully. "I... don't know about Margo, though. I can't tell if it's just because she's a loud alpha or if it's her personality, or both, but like. I don't _dislike_ her? But I wouldn't call us friends, either. I might call Eliot a tentative friend. But I know what the rest of the school thinks about them, so." He shrugs again. "I'm just. Waiting and seeing, I guess."

Julia frowns. "Just be careful," she says. "Have you made any other friends yet?"

"Not exactly? I mean, there's Alice - Alice Quinn - but. We've only talked a few times because I keep getting lost, and end up being the last one to classes, and the only open seat is next to her."

Julia snorts. "Oh God, I've met her," she says. "There's something about her, isn't there? She's kind of an asshole."

"A little, but..." Quentin hesitates. "She's a beta, and. Well, you've noticed most students are alphas or omegas, right? I think she's just trying to really focus on taking magic seriously."

"I have noticed that," Julia says, leaning forward eagerly. "Have you noticed how many male omegas there are on campus?"

Quentin grimaces. "Yeah. I've met a couple - and I'm rooming with one. His name is Penny, I think it's a nickname. He's a _dick._ "

Julia blinks. "You're rooming with an omega?"

Quentin shrugs. "There was one too many alphas, so someone had to. Mrs Byers, the lady who gave the assignments out, said that she felt confident our 'personalities wouldn't clash.'" He snorts. "That didn't turn out to be the case, but. It's because he's a dick, not because he's an omega."

"That sucks," Julia says. "My roommate is a bit of a dick, too, but." She smiles. "I think I like it."

Quentin raises an eyebrow, a knowing grin on his face. "Oh? Do tell, Ms Wicker."

"Her name is Kady, and she's _so hot_ , Q, oh my god."

Quentin's grin grows. "Tell me more."

But Julia's grin is fading quickly. "I probably shouldn't," she says. "It's so soon after breaking up with James. But I don't really think she's the relationship type anyway. Does it count as rebounding if both parties are just in it for the sex?"

Quentin snorts. "You're asking the wrong person," he laughs. "I have no idea. I mean, I guess if you both know what you're getting into, then. Well, you're adults."

"Yeah, we are," Julia muses, and her smile is back. "I'll keep you posted."

* * *

The next two weeks pass in a similar fashion, but just when Quentin thinks he's really started to settle into the rhythm of Brakebills, the first year students are sorted into their disciplines. That's already enough turmoil, except... Well, Quentin doesn't seem to _have_ a discipline. This visibly perplexes Sunderland, who finally tells Quentin after an entire afternoon of testing, that he'll be staying in the Physical Cottage. She's confident his discipline falls under that category, even if she has no idea _what_ his discipline is specifically. So, Quentin packs his bags, ignores Penny doing the same, and heads for the Cottage. 

He finds Alice sitting on the wall across from the front door, and after an hour of brainstorming, Quentin suggests using Alice's phosphoromancy to burn a hole in the door so they can unlock it from the inside. Alice looks irritated that she hadn't thought of it herself, but doesn't argue, and even seems just a little pleased when Quentin attributes their success to her talent when they get inside. Eliot brings over two glasses of the Physical Kids' signature drink, the Blue Thing, and then disappears back into his corner with Margo. Quentin and Alice lose the rest of the night to the party, and Quentin honestly isn't sure how he finds his way to his room that night. 

The next morning, he somehow manages to make his way from the Cottage to the cafeteria for breakfast with Julia. They started doing breakfast on Sunday mornings to keep themselves updated on each other's lives on this crazy-busy campus. 

Quentin grabs a bowl of oatmeal - peanut butter and honey - and a banana as well as a diabetes-inducingly large glass of chocolate milk before heading for their usual table, where Julia is already seated. "Jesus," he sighs, sliding into his chair. "I'm glad soundproofing wards exist."

"Oh, God," Julia says, laughing. "Do I even wanna ask?"

Quentin makes a face. "The party was _so loud,_ " he groans. "Which was okay, when I was down there? But then it was _still_ loud upstairs, until I got the wards configured."

"I'm guessing you haven't had much sleep, then," Julia laughs.

"No, not really," Quentin grumbles. "I'm probably going to go right back to sleep once I get back to the Cottage. Everyone else is probably gonna be too hungover to make much noise." He sighs, shakes his head, and gives Julia a smile. "But what about you? What's your discipline?"

"Meta-Composition," Julia says, practically glowing with pride. "I'm a Knowledge student."

Quentin grins. "Somehow, I'm not surprised," he teases, nudging Julia with his shoulder. "What is meta-cognition?"

"Composition," Julia corrects him. "It means I can understand the theory behind spells, and maybe even reshape them. I'm very excited about it."

Quentin grins. "I bet you are. Are you going to have time for Kady with your nose stuck in all those books? I heard the Knowledge students' dorm is above the library."

"It is," Julia tells him, delighted. "She hasn't been placed yet, but we made plenty of time for each other last night. But what about you? A Physical kid - that's exciting."

"It's something," Quentin laughs. "I don't know what my discipline is, Sunderland couldn't figure it out. Just figured out that it was Physical, but we're going to have to do more tests for like, the really niche disciplines, apparently."

"Oh," Julia says, something like pity in her eyes. "That's a shame, Q."

Quentin shrugs. "Better than being completely undetermined, I guess," he says. "And at least at the Cottage I have a room to myself, so I don't have to share with Penny any more."

Julia gives him a strange smile. "And I bet you're glad to be living with Eliot and Margo."

"Eliot, sure, but..." He hesitates, picks at his oatmeal. "Margo is... I don't know," he finally settles on. "She doesn't _hate_ me, and I don't dislike her, but there's just. I don't know, we don't really get along when Eliot isn't there?"

"It's not like you to butt heads with another alpha," Julia says, frowning.

"I know. But she just... doesn't seem to trust me, I guess? I don't know why, I haven't _done_ anything."

"She's awful to everyone, as far as I can tell," Julia says. "So is Eliot, for that matter."

"They're not the nicest people," Quentin concedes with a wince. "But they aren't like. _Malicious._ "

"Are you sure about that?" Julia asks.

* * *

The Cottage is quiet when Quentin gets back, perhaps unsurprisingly so - it's still early, and everyone probably has the mother of all hangovers to sleep off. Quentin closes the front door behind him and makes for the stairs, only to jump out of his skin when someone clears their throat behind him. When he turns, it's to see Eliot, fully dressed and lounging on the sofa closest to the door.

"Good morning," Eliot says, with a lazy smile. "I'm impressed you made it through the night."

"Yeah, the, uh - the wards helped," Quentin says. "I'm surprised you're up."

"I can't sleep late with a hangover," Eliot says, sitting up with a wince. "I'm guessing you didn't drink much?"

Quentin shakes his head. "I never do. Alcohol and I have... a complicated relationship. I tend to do stupid shit, or get _really_ mopey."

"Noted," Eliot says with a small smile. "Did you have a good time, at least?"

"For the most part," Quentin answers, and the accompanying laugh sounds awkward even to his ears. "Whenever Margo wasn't glaring at me like she was trying to turn me to ash."

Eliot winces again. "She's... overprotective," he says. "She doesn't like new alphas. Don't take it personally - it's a territorial thing."

Quentin makes a face. "Alphas," he sighs. "I am one, and even I don't understand most of them.”

"Just ignore her," Eliot says breezily. "She's being ridiculous, and she knows it."

Quentin snorts, but he's smiling. He leans against the bannister and gives Eliot a thoughtful look before asking, "Did you have any plans for the day?"

Eliot shrugs. "Not really," he says. "Margo's got better things to do today than hang out with me, so I'm a free agent."

Quentin nods. "Right, sure. Do you want to... I don't know, do something? Together?" There's a hint of a flush to his cheeks as he speaks, like Quentin knows how lame he sounds, but can't stop himself. 

Eliot laughs at him, but rather than mocking the sound is warm, indulgent. Quentin likes it. "Why don't we go out?" he suggests. "Like, to the city."

Quentin blinks, then smiles. "That sounds fun," he says. "Sure, why not?"

Eliot smiles. "Great," he says. "Let me get dressed, and we'll be on our way."

Quentin's brow furrows. "But you're already dressed."

"What, this?" Eliot looks down at himself, at the smart grey shirt and black slacks he's wearing. "Oh, Q. I'm not even wearing a tie."

"And... that's... a bad thing?" Quentin hazards. 

"Sweet summer child," Eliot sighs. He gets to his feet and glides past Quentin to reach the stairs ahead of him. "I'll meet you down here in twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour."

Quentin rolls his eyes, smiling. "I'll meet you down here," he agrees. 

Quentin thought that Eliot was already pretty presentable, but when he comes downstairs thirty minutes later with his hair perfectly coiffed and wearing a cream shirt with a navy vest, Quentin's mouth goes dry. Eliot smirks like he knows exactly what he's doing to Quentin and nestles a pair of sunglasses neatly amongst his curls. "Yes, yes, I know, I look amazing," he says with a careless wave of his hand. "Are you ready?"

"Uh." It takes Quentin a moment to gather enough brain cells to form a proper response. "Yes, yeah, I'm - I'm ready."

"Great." Eliot's smile is much closer to a smirk. "Is there anywhere in particular you'd like to go?"

"Er, no? I just... figured we'd wander around?"

Eliot laughs. "All right," he says. "Why don't we do that for a while, and then we can grab lunch at a fabulous little bistro I know?"

Quentin smiles, heading for the door. "I think that sounds like a good plan."

* * *

This is the first time Quentin has been off campus. He probably shouldn't be surprised that when they step beyond the wards, they're not in the same place Quentin had been before he stumbled through the bushes and almost landed at Eliot's feet. Instead, they're somewhere else, down a side street that leads onto a busy main road. Eliot must notice his confusion, but he just smiles and links his arm through Quentin's, guides him towards the mouth of the street.

”You can portal to pretty much anywhere in the city from campus if you know how," Eliot explains as they join the crowds seamlessly. "As long as you've been there before. This--" He points across the street; "--is my favourite theatre off-Broadway."

"Theatre?" Quentin asks, interested. "Did you act, or just watch?"

"Oh, I acted plenty in school," Eliot chuckles. "But never there. The kind of roles I used to go for wouldn't work in a place like that."

Quentin's brow furrows. "Why not?"

Eliot cuts a glance to him. "Traditional theatre likes alphas to play the alphas."

"But college theaters were okay with a beta playing an alpha?"

The corner of Eliot's lips twitch like he's going to smile, or maybe grimace, but then his mouth thinks better of it. "College is a lot more liberal in a lot of ways," he says. "At least it is when you're majoring in The Most Liberal Arts."

" _No,_ " Quentin drawls, unable to help his grin. "Who knew liberal arts would be so liberal?" 

Eliot chuckles and steers them off down the street. "You're a bit of an asshole, aren't you?"

"So I've been told," Quentin says cheerfully. "What kinds of plays were you in?"

"All kinds," Eliot says. "Shakespeare, musicals. My crowning glory was Valjean."

"Valjean... From _Les Miserables_?" Quentin's eyebrows rise. "Impressive."

Eliot smirks. "I know."

"So, did you have a lot of acting experience before college?" Quentin asks curiously. 

Eliot's mouth twists. "Not really," he says. "My drama teacher was rather conservative. I wasn't interested in the parts available to me."

Quentin hesitates; he half-wants to ask what parts were available to Eliot, but... They came out for a good time, today, and Quentin doesn't want to be the one to spoil that, not when he's got Eliot to himself for once. "Asshole teachers are everywhere," he settles on. "But I’m glad you found a better one. Got any other favorite places around here? I didn't do much exploring while I was at Columbia."

"Oh, plenty," Eliot says warmly, and turns them down another side street.

They wander apparently without aim for an hour or so, Eliot pointing out a few more theatres as well as clubs and cafés and even an occult bookstore he likes. That piques Quentin's interest much more than any of the other buildings, so they go inside and spend a little while browsing around the shelves. The bookstore is one Eliot found before he got into Brakebills, so a lot of it is gimmicky stuff, lots of incense and candles and tumbled crystals, but the owner is a genuine magician, as he discovered sometime during his first semester, so there are some useful books in there as well. Quentin leaves feeling very pleased with himself with a little paper bag sporting the store's logo. The indulgent smile Eliot gives him as they step out onto the street makes him feel warm all over.

Once they're done there Eliot steers them towards the bistro he mentioned earlier. It's a little hole-in-the-wall type of place, partially concealed between two larger buildings, and it feels cosy inside, all dark wood and low lighting. A girl, a beta, is there to greet them just inside the door and asks if they have a table booked. Quentin doesn't know why he's surprised when Eliot says yes, and gives over his name; the girl leads them to a small table tucked into a back corner and leaves them with two menus. Eliot offers his recommendations on the food, but insists on choosing the drinks. He orders them both a sloe royale when their waitress arrives, and when she returns with two slender champagne glasses filled with a fizzy burgundy cocktail she promises that their food will be with them soon.

"So," Quentin says slowly, giving Eliot a speculative, curious look. "I guess you come here often? To know the menu so well, I mean."

"I made it my business to know all the best spots in the city pretty soon after my arrival," Eliot says, picking up his glass and holding it delicately to his lips. He takes a small sip and sets it down again. "This place is easily one of my favourites."

"City kid through and through, huh?" Quentin asks, smiling as he takes a sip of his own cocktail. His eyebrows rise, and he blinks. "Wow. That's... an odd flavor, but it's good. Berries?"

"It's gin," Eliot says, with a small smile. "And champagne."

"Huh." Quentin takes another sip. "It's really good; I don't usually really care for gin. How did you find this place?"

"I can't even remember," Eliot admits. "Pre-Brakebills. I've been coming here for years."

"Ever bring anyone else here?"

Eliot raises an eyebrow. "Jealous?"

Quentin feels his face heat. "No, just curious. I don't... really know a whole lot about you."

Eliot leans back in his seat, sips at his cocktail again. "Well," he says, smiling, "I'm an open book. Ask away."

Given free reign like that, Quentin does. He doesn't take full advantage of it - he avoids questions about Eliot's childhood, mostly because he really doesn't want to talk about his own - but he asks about his time since coming to New York. Quentin is pretty sure that Eliot didn't grow up in the city, but he's pretty sure Eliot grew up in _a_ city, at least. Eliot answers his questions about his undergrad days, even tells Quentin a little bit about the Trials - which Quentin is not really looking forward to, it's an open secret that they're basically hazing for new Magicians, even if they're _technically_ supposed to be the midterms - and how he passed them. He does make it a point to mention that every second year class comes up with different tests, though, so it's not like anything Eliot tells Quentin will give him any kind of advantage in a few weeks.

The food is just as delicious as Eliot had promised it would be, and the cocktails keep coming. By the time they finally leave the bistro, Quentin is pleasantly buzzed, enough so that he doesn't feel self-conscious about walking a little closer to Eliot as they make their way back to the portal. Their arms brush with every other step, and Quentin... likes that, he decides. He likes the way it feels with Eliot; it's easy, as easy as it ever was with Julia, maybe even moreso. "I had fun today," Quentin says after they pass a busker and he can hear himself think again. 

"Me too," Eliot says, something light and pleased in his voice. "We should do it again, as soon as Margo lets me out of her sight."

Quentin snorts. "What is her problem with me, anyway?"

"She's just overly protective," Eliot says. "It's an alpha thing. Don't you get that?"

Quentin shrugs. "Kind of? I've never been really possessive, though. Not like most alphas. Never really saw the reason, like. Even if I'm with someone, I don't fucking own them, y'know?"

Eliot's eyebrows shoot up. "Margo doesn't own me," he says. "She just doesn't want anyone else deciding that they want to."

"She's still just as protective as any alpha who's bonded an omega," Quentin points out, amused. "But I guess I can see why. You've got a... certain kind of charm. I'd also tell you you're hot as hell, but then I don't think your head would fit back into the Cottage."

Eliot actually laughs at that. "My, we have been drinking, haven't we?"

Quentin feels his cheeks heat; he doesn't look at Eliot as he bumps him a little too hard with his shoulder. "Oh, fuck off. I'm not saying anything you don't already know."

Eliot just laughs again and loops his arm through Quentin's. "Of course you're not," he says. "I just didn't think I'd ever hear it from you."

Quentin grumbles under his breath, but easily falls into step closer with Eliot. "Yeah, yeah. See if I ever give you another compliment, asshole."

* * *

Quentin is socially exhausted by the time they get back to campus, and after thanking Eliot for a fun day out, he disappears upstairs. Eliot isn't expecting to see him for the rest of the day, so settles into his own room to wait for Margo to return from her own day trip. She does so right before that evening's party starts, and they don't have a chance to talk until it's well underway, and they no longer need to play the attentive hosts. Margo finds Eliot in their usual corner, and tucks herself in against his side, drink in hand. "Hi, baby," she murmurs, leaning in to give him a kiss. "Hope you weren't too bored without me today."

"Oh, no, I was fine," Eliot says lightly, sighing as her familiar scent washes over him. "I kept myself busy, don't you worry."

Margo hums, taking a sip of her drink. "Oh?"

Eliot shrugs, deliberately vague. "I have my ways."

Margo's eyes narrow. "What are you not telling me?" she demands, poking Eliot in the chest. 

"Hey, nothing," Eliot protests. "I just went out to that bistro in the city for lunch."

Margo's eyes narrow further. "By yourself?"

"Yes," Eliot tries.

Margo pokes him again, harder this time. "Bullshit. Who'd you go with?"

"Does it matter?" Eliot asks, with a small smile.

"Yes, it does. The more you dodge my question the more suspicious I get, El."

Eliot rolls his eyes, hard. "Fine," he says. "I hung out with Q, okay?"

" _Q?_ " Margo echoes. "You took _Quentin_ to that bistro?"

"See, I knew you'd freak out," Eliot complains. "It's not a big deal."

Margo snorts. "Of course it's not. You've only been taken with him for the entire fucking semester."

"We barely know him," Eliot argues, unimpressed. "I'm just making a new friend."

"You're _interested_ in him, and I don't understand why," Margo complains. "He's cute and all, but he's... really not your usual type."

Eliot laughs. "That's because I don't want to fuck him," he says. "Jesus, Margo."

"Really? Are sure you don't want _something_ from him? You never take people to that little bistro, El."

"That's because I don't have any friends who aren't you," Eliot says. "I'm a beta, remember? He's an alpha. It wouldn't do me any favours to want anything from him."

Margo raises an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"Because he'll want an omega."

Margo doesn't look terribly impressed with that explanation. "Because that's what all alphas want, I suppose?"

"Of course not," Eliot says, frustrated. "But have you met Q? He's hardly your typical alpha. He wouldn't go in for someone like me even if he was interested in betas."

"I'd think him being an unusual alpha would make him _more_ inclined to 'go in' for someone like you," Margo retorts. 

"Well, it hardly matters," Eliot insists. "Because I'm not interested."

Margo eyes him suspiciously for another moment before she huffs, settling in against his side. "I hope you mean that; you're far too good for him."

Eliot sees red. "Jesus Christ, Margo, you do realise that you don't actually own me?"

Margo looks at him with wide eyes. "What?"

"You heard me," Eliot says, defiant. "I'm not _yours_ ; I can be friends with Quentin if I want to. You don't really get a say."

Margo blinks, clearly taken aback, before she frowns. "I would have thought your _best_ friend got to at least give her opinion," she says waspishly, pushing herself upright and then to her feet. "But since it's clearly not wanted, I think I'll go find some other company for the night. Have fun, Eliot."

Eliot just watches her go, something unpleasant curdling inside of him. Maybe Quentin had the right idea in getting an early night after all.

* * *

Quentin would just like it to be known that he absolutely fucking _hates_ group work. Usually he ends up doing everything and slapping his partner's name on the end result, which is just - it's bullshit. So when Professor Sunderland announces that they'll be working in groups, Quentin thinks he should be applauded for biting back the instinctive groan. He bites back another when she announces that she's already chosen their partners, but perks in interest when she announces that he's going to be working with Alice Quinn. 

He and Alice have talked a little bit, by virtue of living in the same place and sharing many of the same classes, and Quentin is intrigued by her. When the class shuffles around to get into their new groups, Quentin moves to the seat next to Alice. "Hey," he says, giving her a small smile. "So, do you hate group work as much as I do?"

"I'm going to warn you right now," Alice says haughtily. "If you expect to slack off and leave me to do all the work, I will call you out on it in front of the entire class and I will take all of the credit."

Quentin blinks. "Uh, that's not at all where I was going with that," he says slowly. "I was actually going to say I hate it when people do that to me, so I'm not going to do it to you."

Alice blinks. "Oh," she says, and pushes her glasses further up her nose. "Okay then."

Quentin's smile returns, a little more tentative this time. "So, which spell do you want to research? I think the, uh, stasis one sounds interesting. Y'know, stopping something without killing it?"

"It doesn't actually stop anything," Alice tells him. "It just slows everything in the body down until it's almost imperceptible. It would be interesting to look at the balance needed to pull that off without completely screwing everything up."

Quentin considers that. "We could do a section on possible repercussions for screwing it up?" he suggests. "Sunderland did say she wanted us to consider every angle of the spell we chose."

Alice nods. "All right," she says. "I guess you have a higher chance of following this through if you're interested in the subject matter."

Quentin snorts, but he relaxes. "So, when do you want to meet to start researching? I know we've got most of the same classes, but I've noticed you're always out later than any other first year in the Cottage, so I'm guessing you're taking some extra classes?"

"Yes," Alice says simply. "But I don't have any today. We could meet in the library after dinner?"

"That works for me," Quentin agrees. "Around seven?"

"Sure," Alice says.

* * *

Alice is waiting for him when Quentin arrives at the library at exactly seven o'clock, books already spread out around her like she's been waiting for him for an hour. She smiles at his approach, but barely, and gives him an assessing look as he takes the seat opposite her. "I hope you've come prepared," she says. "I don't have the time to baby you through this."

"I did some brainstorming," Quentin says, pulling out his notes. "On like, how to organize the information, what kinds of questions each section should answer, that sort of thing. And I'm more than willing to be a go-for and organize stuff."

Alice raises her eyebrows, impressed. "All right," she says. "Let's see what you've got."

They settle into their work, pooling their notes before starting to sort everything out. Once they have that, Alice sends Quentin after a couple of books she knows contains useful information while she looks for some new ones. They settle in with their books - and almost immediately, Alice starts critiquing Quentin's studying and note-taking styles. Eventually, Quentin has enough, and he slips a paper into his spot in the book before snapping it shut, glaring at Alice. "Why are you so obsessed with my notes?" he asks, frustrated. "I told you, once I finish with these books I'll go through and sort out what we can use and what isn't needed. Doing it right now is just a distraction!"

"I just want to make sure we're being efficient," Alice says, annoyed. "I need a good grade on this, and with all of my extra classes I don't have time to screw around."

"Okay, I get that," Quentin concedes. "But everyone has different strategies for learning. And the more you interrupt mine, the more distracted I get and the more I lose my train of thought, and the more _our_ grade is jeopardized. You're not the only one who wants to get a good grade."

Alice shakes her head. "I'm not used to having other people contribute," she admits. "I don't trust that you will."

Quentin sighs. "Look, just - give me today, at least, before you start complaining about my note-taking? This is due in a week, so... We can spare a day to figure out if this will let me contribute enough to keep you happy."

Alice actually stares him down, but Quentin sees the moment she relents - at least for now. "Fine," she says. "Just today."

Quentin hesitates for a moment. "Why is it so important that you always get good grades?" he asks. "I... You're always working hard, and all of these extra classes... Why put all that on yourself?"

"Because if I don't, I'll never change how the world sees me," Alice says. There's something hard in her eyes, like she's setting herself up for disappointment. "My family are all really powerful Magicians, and they're all alphas or omegas. I'm the only beta. Betas aren't anything special, whether they're magical or not. So if I want to be seen as a force to be reckoned with, I have to fight twice as hard as anyone else."

"Oh," Quentin says quietly. "I didn't - I didn't realize Magicians were worse about betas than the rest of the world."

"They're worse about everything than the rest of the world," Alice says bitterly.

"Well that's bullshit," Quentin says, frowning. "But I guess it makes sense Magicians are snobbier than anyone else, since they've got more power." He sighs, gives Alice what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "I think you're a damn good Magician, and I promise I will do my best to _not_ drag your grade down. 

Alice sniffs, and gives him a curt nod. "Good," she says. "Thank you."

Quentin's lips twitch, and he tilts his head towards the books. "Let's see if we can finish going through these tonight? That should give us a good start."

* * *

Quentin and Alice manage to make some good progress that night and the next. Alice is still a bit bossy, but she's at least stopped critiquing Quentin's note-taking strategy, so he figures he can put up with the rest of her nitpicking. That's actually what he's thinking about, trying to figure out how to organize the information they've found so far on the stasis spell for best flow, after his last class of the day. He's humming to himself - Taylor Swift, because her music is a bop and good to use to focus with - as he leaves the classroom. He's just turned the corner into the stairwell when somebody rams into his shoulder, knocking him to the side and onto the small landing. "What the - " Quentin starts, confused and more than a little pissed - only for both feelings to get worse when he sees Penny standing there, blocking his way off of the landing and to the stairs. "What the _fuck,_ Penny?"

"Can you please try to get your shit together?" Penny grinds out through clenched teeth. "Your mental wards are bullshit and I can't take another second of hearing your whining in my head."

"If it's bothering you so much, go somewhere else," Quentin snaps back, defensive. "It's a fucking huge campus, plenty of space for us to avoid each other."

"Except when you're in class, and you're singing fucking Taylor Swift in your head and mooning over pretty betas."

Quentin flushes. "That's none of your business."

"Then stop _making it_ my fucking business!"

"I'm working on my wards, okay?" Quentin snaps; he can feel his heart rate rising. "It's not my fault if yours are shit, too! I don't fucking _mean_ to broadcast, and you're the only psychic harrassing me about them!"

"Because I'm the only one with the stones to call you out on your bullshit!"

"No, you're just the only one who's enough of a _dick_ to harass the dude still learning," Quentin snarls, barely able to hear himself over the blood rushing in his ears. Without realizing it, a bit of _alpha_ seeps into his tone and scent as he tries to get around Penny. "I'll work on it more, just fucking _move_."

Penny inhales sharply, and then suddenly he's right in Quentin's face. "Did you just try to make me submit, you little bitch?"

Quentin's eyes widen. "What? _No,_ I didn't - I just wanted you out of my face so I could get out of here!"

"You think I'd submit to _you?_ " Penny demands, and he actually shoves Quentin back. "You're a piss-poor excuse for an alpha. You _disgust_ me."

Quentin puts his hands up, backing up a step. "I don't want you to submit, dickhead! I just want to get back to the Cottage, and you're in my way."

"Do it again, then," Penny says, and shoves Quentin once more. "Bitch. Do it again. See where it gets you."

Quentin isn't stupid enough to take that challenge, but apparently he _is_ stupid enough to shove Penny back, one hand to his shoulder. "Will you just _get out of the way?_ " he snaps, trying to edge around Penny. "I already told you I'll work on my wards, and I'm sorry for slipping but you are being an asshole!"

Quentin doesn't even see the punch coming, but in the next instant he feels like his whole face has exploded.

" _Fuck!_ " he shouts, instinctively reaching up to cover his face; he feels a wetness on his hand, knows it's blood. "You mother - " His free hand clenches into a fist at his side, but both Penny and Quentin freeze when a new voice barks at them. 

"Enough! Mr Adiyodi, back away from Mr Coldwater. Mr Coldwater, if you don't relax, I can and will stun you." Squinting through the pain, Quentin recognizes Professor Horowitz, who's watching them both with a scowl and his arms crossed over his chest. 

"Professor - " he starts, voice thick with pain, only for Professor Horowitz to cut him off. 

"No, I'm not listening to your excuses here. The both of you will come with me to Dean Fogg's office. _Now._ "

Penny turns to sneer at him. "Try worming your way out of this one, asshole."

" _Mr_ Adiyodi, that is enough," Professor Horowitz snaps, already herding them down the stairs. "Come on, both of you."

Quentin tries to ignore the pit in his stomach, and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. 

* * *

He doesn't make it back to the Cottage until that evening, and he doesn't try to enter the building. He can hear the noise from outside, and he can't face that even long enough to get to his room right now. So, instead, he ducks around the corner of the Cottage, heading for the back patio. Of course, even that's occupied, and Quentin freezes when he catches sight of Margo and Eliot lounging on the chairs, a small fire going in the pit between them. "Um," he says, mind going completely blank; he hadn't thought that he'd run into anyone, much less _them_ back here.

"Quentin," Margo says, with a somewhat sly smile. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

Quentin flushes, gaze dropping. "Sorry, I just - thought it would be empty out here," he mutters, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. 

Eliot frowns, sits up out of his lazy sprawl. "What's wrong?"

"I, uh. I think I might be getting kicked out? I don't know, Dean Fogg's hard to read, but um. Horowitz seemed pretty pissed."

"Kicked out?" Eliot is on his feet in an instant. "What happened?"

"I, um. I was coming out of my last class, and I was thinking about this project we had to do, that I'm working with Alice on. Y'know, the one where we do like. A book report but on a spell? Anyway, apparently my mental wards are shit, and Penny didn't like... whatever I was thinking about. He cornered me, started yelling at me." Quentin swallows, takes a breath, and his gaze drops to the floor as he mumbles, "I, um. I alpha'ed him. Accidentally. He blew up on me, punched me."

"You did what?" Margo demands, furious. "Quentin, that is beyond fucked up."

"I know, but I - I _panicked,_ he had me caught in the stairwell and wouldn't get out of the way so I could leave, and I panicked!" Quentin cries. "He wasn't moving, and my anxiety was spiking, and then he punched me, which, well, I can't blame him for, but all I wanted was to just get out of there and he wouldn't let me leave!"

"Okay," Eliot says, his hands up to Margo in supplication. "Let's be rational about this. What did Fogg say?"

"Not much," Quentin says, running a hand through his hair. "He listened to our version of events separately, so I don't know what happened with Penny. But he just. Listened to me tell him basically what I just told you, and then said that he would be considering the issue and wanted me and Penny to come back tomorrow morning to hear what he decided."

"Yeah, that really doesn't sound good," Margo drawls.

"But it doesn't sound bad, either," Eliot says quickly.

Quentin makes a face. "Thanks, that's really reassuring."

Eliot lets out a sharp breath. "Bambi, could you give us a minute?"

Margo's jaw drops. "You've gotta be shitting me."

" _Bambi._ "

Margo makes a disgusted sound. "Fine," she spits, and gets to her feet. "But if I find out he's tried to influence someone again, I'll cut his knot off."

Eliot doesn't say anything until Margo has gone back inside, at which point he turns back to Quentin with a sigh. "I'm sorry about her."

"No, don't be," Quentin sighs, finally sinking into a nearby chair. "That was a shitty thing to do, even if it was accidental. That... might make it worse, actually."

Eliot sits down too, produces a pack of cigarettes from nowhere and offers it to Quentin. "Talk to me about it," he says. "Tell me what happened."

Quentin takes a cigarette, lighting up with shaky hands. He doesn't say anything until he's taken several deep drags, smoke curling in the air around him. "Like I said, I came out of my last class thinking about Alice and my project. Just, y'know, how to organize our information, stuff like that. And I might've been humming Taylor Swift? But when I got to the stairs, Penny shoved me to the side, started yelling at me about my mental wards. Said he didn't want to hear or see me singing Taylor Swift and, um. 'Mooning over pretty betas.'" Quentin pauses, lifts the cigarette to his lips again. "I told him I'd work on my wards, but he just. Refused to let it go - let _me_ go. I hate being trapped, so my anxiety was going through the roof, and I was pissed, and..." He shrugs. "Then Penny tried to goad me into doing it again, shoved me a couple times, and when I tried to shove him out of the way so I could leave, he punched me."

"So it was an accident," Eliot surmises. "You were cornered, you felt threatened, and you let some of your alpha slip. It happens sometimes. Or, so I'm told."

"Yeah, well, usually that only happens when it's an alpha threatening the one who slips," Quentin mutters. "Penny's an omega."

"Penny's an asshole," Eliot corrects, smoking furiously. "Everyone knows that. He can easily be as threatening as an alpha, especially..."

Quentin frowns. "Especially what?"

"Especially to alphas like you," Eliot says, but then adds quickly, "Not that that's a bad thing. It's just that you don't walk around with your knot in your hand like most alphas do."

Quentin makes a face, clearly conveying the fact that he isn't sure how to take that. "Yeah, well. I am still an alpha, and he's an omega, and I lost control. Things usually don't end well for the alpha in this kind of situation."

"Yes," Eliot says, blowing smoke away from them. "Well." He clears his throat. "We won't know anything until you speak to Fogg tomorrow. He may be sympathetic."

Quentin snorts. "And if he's not?"

"Then you won't remember it anyway," Eliot says, troubled.

Quentin glances at Eliot, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Eliot looks away. "If you get kicked out, Q, they'll take your memory."

Quentin stares at him, cigarette hanging limply in his hand. "What? That - No, they..." He swallows. "No, it makes... sense. Matter of secrecy, right?" He laughs, the sound hollow. "I can't - Eliot, I can't just go back out there and be... fucking Quentin Coldwater, depressed supernerd with a degree in philosophy and English, and _lose_ all of this."

"You won't," Eliot says, sitting up with a new fire in his eyes. "I won't let you."

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "How do you plan on doing that?"

"If they wipe your memory," Eliot says, "I'll find you. I'll seduce you, and so lift your spirits that life retains its sparkle for decades."

Quentin just stares at him for a long moment before his lips tilt up, and he laughs. "Yeah, okay," he says, still smiling. "That sounds pretty good. Thanks."

Eliot smiles back, though it's a little strained around the eyes. "You're welcome."

* * *

Quentin doesn't get kicked out. It's nothing short of a miracle, but all he gets is a slap on the wrist and a warning not to lose control of himself again. Quentin goes straight to Eliot after, looking shaken and shell shocked. Eliot does what any good friend would do, and gets him absolutely wasted to celebrate. After that, it's business as usual - which means it's time for the Trials.

Eliot has been looking forward to the Trials for a year. The now-third years who ran the show last year had very little imagination; he's known since his own Trials that he and Margo would do a much better job. Fogg must have thought so, too, because he hands the whole thing over to them without argument. Maybe he just knew they wouldn't take no for an answer.

The first Trial goes off without a hitch. Eliot spends the opening ceremony mildly aroused, high on the power of telling all of these bewildered first years that if they dare fuck up a single time for the next few days, they'll fail out of Brakebills and have their minds wiped for the trouble. They all smell of fear and anxiety, and honestly, Eliot kind of gets why that's such a turn-on for the more predatory alphas out there. Only the Quinn girl and Quentin smell of absolute terror, but Eliot isn't worried. There's no way either of them will fail. He isn't disappointed.

He and Margo wash their hands of the whole affair right around the time the remaining cohort start flapping off to Brakebills South. Their work is done, the cleanup can be left to someone else, and they suddenly have more pressing matters to attend to. Namely: the regalo required for this year's Encanto Oculto.

They actually have to apply themselves this time, they have to _try_ \- so is it any wonder that Eliot gets his head turned by the first pretty boy they encounter at the library? Mike is an alpha, gorgeous, confident without being cocky. Eliot doesn't normally go for alphas, no matter what Margo might say, but he's sweet, too, polite and considerate, and really... It's been a while.

It doesn't take long for Margo to send them upstairs to fuck it out while she gets some work done. Eliot gives Mike the blowjob of his life, but they actually spend most of their time talking. He will never admit this to Margo, but they talk until they fall asleep, and when he wakes up to find Mike still in his bed, he's not mad. Honestly, quite the contrary.

He is mad when Margo gets sick of their antics and wishes Mike into a mindless stupor, on his knees fellating a door knob in the library, courtesy of the djinn they accidentally conjured. He makes Margo wish him back to normal and then disposes of the djinn as ethically as he can before falling back into bed with Mike. He spends the night again, and he can tell Margo's furious, but he doesn't care. He _likes_ Mike. Why can't he enjoy it?

Margo can go fuck herself.

Still, it's with no small amount of trepidation that he creeps down the stairs on the morning they're supposed to be leaving for Ibiza in a robe and little else. Margo is already packed and ready to go, and she looks flawless as always. Her wrath is going to be unbearable after this.

"Good morning," he says, his tone guarded. "I need to talk to you."

Margo's eyes immediately narrow, her gaze sweeping him head to toe. "It better be to tell me that you need to kick Mike out of your bed and then you'll be packed and ready to go," she says icily. 

"Ha," Eliot says, and wrings his hands together in a nervous gesture that even he acknowledges is out of character. "Yeah. Um. I'm not going."

Margo gives him a flat stare. "Not going," she repeats, and it isn't a question. "You're just... ditching me the day we're supposed to leave for our fantastic week of sex, drinks, and drugs, in order to do... what, exactly? Fuck the first pretty alpha to give you bedroom eyes since your first choice isn't here right now?"

Eliot glares at her. "Don't make this about him being an alpha," he says. "I like him. And Ibiza just isn't really his thing."

"No, it's not," Margo snaps, matching him glare-for-glare. "It's _our_ thing."

"It is," Eliot agrees, and pulls her tiny grumpy self in for a kiss. "And it will be again. It'll still be there next year. I just... I wanna see where this goes, Bambi."

Margo's expression softens marginally, more pout than scowl now. "Really? This is _really_ what you want?"

"Yeah," Eliot says, and he can hear his own voice, okay? He can acknowledge the wistful note in it. "Please don't make this harder than it has to be."

She studies his expression for a long moment before she sighs. "You," she says, reaching up to poke him in the chest, "are going to miss me so hard you won't be able to get it up."

Eliot just laughs. "You are absolutely right."

* * *

"Well. That was... That was really fucking awkward, honestly."

Quentin can't help but laugh, kicking idly at a rock in the path as he and Alice walk back to the Physical Cottage. 'Awkward' pretty neatly sums up their relationship ever since coming back from Brakebills South - ever since Mayakovsky turned them into foxes and they fucked, honestly. Being portaled back to Brakebills only to immediately run into Eliot and his new - his new boyfriend, and for him to immediately start teasing Quentin and Alice about being Mayakovsky's victims of the year hadn't helped any. Shaking his head and bringing himself back to the present, Quentin snorts. "Yeah, no. That was just. It was awful." Going on a date had sounded like a good idea - or at least the next step they should take - but they didn't exactly have a lot of options, and the study lounge was the best they could do. It had been okay, when they'd been sitting quietly reading, but when Quentin had tried to shift closer, rest his arm against the back of the couch behind Alice's head, the atmosphere had taken a hard right from 'relatively relaxed' into 'tense and awkward.'

"I'm sorry, Quentin," Alice says. She pushes her glasses further up her nose, straightens her skirt a little. "I just don't think we should force anything, you know? I'd like us to be friends, and if we keep trying to be more I think we're just going to make it worse."

"Yeah, probably," Quentin concedes with a sigh. "This wasn't exactly a promising start."

"I don't think the fox thing was a promising start," Alice admits. "We work on a... primal, animal level. The sex was incredible, during and after. But the other parts of ourselves..." She shakes her head. "I don't think I can be what you need, Quentin."

Quentin bites his lip. "Yeah, that - I can see that," he concedes. He glances back at Alice, gives her a slight smile. "I'd like to be friends, though. If we can move past the whole fox thing."

For a second, the look Alice gives him is almost hungry - but then the look is gone, replaced by a small smile. "Give it some time," she says. "I think we'll be okay."

Quentin laughs. "Sounds like a plan," he says, and his steps are a little lighter as they approach the front door of the Cottage. He and Alice part ways on the first floor, and Quentin heads for his room feeling... not quite disappointed, and maybe even content. 

That feeling lasts until he passes the door to Eliot's room just in time to hear an unmistakable moan. Quentin freezes, unable to believe what he's hearing - but then it comes again, accompanied by a low murmur, and Quentin feels his face flush. He beats a hasty retreat to his room, already dreading the next morning. He has an _awful_ poker face when he isn't actually playing poker.

* * *

Quentin is the first one down to the kitchen for breakfast, but he only has a few moments' peace before he hears voices on the stairs. One of them, he'd recognize anywhere, and his stomach drops down to somewhere around his feet at the way Eliot laughs, low and throaty, at something Mike Mc-Who-Fucking-Cares says. Christ, he’s starting to sound like Margo when she doesn’t like something. Quentin schools his expression into what he hopes is something neutral as they round the corner into the kitchen, gives them a tight smile. "Hey, El. Mike."

"Jeez, who pissed in your cheerios?" Eliot asks, one eyebrow raised. He has an arm looped around Mike's waist like he isn't taller than him, and he's looking _very_ smug.

"No one," Quentin says, gaze dropping to his breakfast. "Just... Had a date with Alice, got in late." He hesitates, then adds, "I think someone near me needs to re-do their wards."

Eliot just laughs, distracted by Mike's lips on his neck. "What?"

Quentin pushes his cereal around in his bowl. "It's just - pretty sure someone got laid last night," he finally says, gaze flicking up to meet Eliot's. "I could hear them until I went into my room after my date with Alice last night."

The smile slips from Eliot's face. "Oh," he says. "God."

"Oh, who cares?" Mike chuckles. "I bet everyone enjoyed the show."

Quentin can't help but frown at him. "It wasn't a _show,_ but I..." He gives Eliot an apologetic look. "I could hear it in the hall. It was quiet, but still."

"As long as a good time was had by all," Mike drawls, but Eliot squirms away from him.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," he says. "I'll reset my wards today."

Quentin shrugs. "I'm pretty sure I was the only one who heard it? The Cottage was pretty dead by the time Alice and I got back. And like I said, it was still... muffled."

Still, Eliot looks mortified. "Still," he says, "I'll fix it. We'll fix it. Won't we?"

"Of course," Mike says. "Whatever you want, baby."

Eliot visibly forces himself not to squirm at that. "Enough about us. How did it go with Alice?"

Quentin doesn't answer for a moment, looking between the two of them - not bothering to hide the distaste in his gaze when it lands on Mike - before he does so. "It was... okay," he says. "We spent some time in the library, talked on our way back here, sorted some things out."

" _Love is in the air_ ," Mike sings. "At least for us."

Eliot laughs. "I'm happy for you, Q."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he can't help the slight tilt of his lips. "Yeah, yeah. I've got an essay to finish, so I think I'm gonna do that before I go back to bed."

Eliot watches Quentin skirt around them to the door, and he turns in Mike's arms to watch him go. "We're having a party tonight," he says abruptly. "To celebrate the end of the Trials. You'll come, right?"

Quentin freezes in the doorway; he hesitates, looking back at Eliot, and then he nods, just once. "For a little while, at least."

Eliot smiles. "You'll have a good time, I promise."

"Your presence would be an honour," Mike assures him. He's muffling his laughter against Eliot's cheek as Quentin walks out.

* * *

Eliot prides himself on being an immaculate host, with or without a boyfriend, so that night finds him behind the bar, taking care of the Physical Kids and the rest of the remaining first years alike the only way he knows how; by getting them absolutely, roaring drunk. He also spent a good portion of the afternoon working some truly beautiful illusion magic, even if he does say so himself, so that now colourful lights dance across the ceiling and sparkling stars rain down on their guests as they dance. The music is smooth and mellow for now, and he has Josh Hoberman serving cakes and other treats that perfectly compliment his cocktail menu for this evening. Not bad for a day's work.

The crowd is a little thinner than it usually is, since more than half of the second- and third-years have disappeared to Ibiza. Eliot was admittedly surprised that Josh hadn't gone, too, but he told Eliot that there's nothing there for him that he doesn't already know or can't do better himself. He was all too happy to put that to the test tonight. The smaller guest list means that Eliot has been able to control even the finer details, has restricted the bar's capacity to fulfil orders at whim and has planned the theme meticulously. This will be no drunken rager. This will be drunken sophistication.

Still, for all his efforts to keep the atmosphere as unintimidating as possible, there's no sign of Quentin. Eliot is fairly sure he's still up in his room, and he's considering abandoning his station to search him out, but a warm hand on the back of his neck banishes that thought immediately. He sighs, leaning back against Mike's chest, and smiles. "What do you think?" he asks, gesturing to the masterpiece around them.

"I think you're a much better host than Finch was when I was here," Mike tells him, approval and warmth clear in his voice as he squeezes the back of Eliot's neck. 

Eliot purrs and turns his head for a kiss. "I try," he says. "I like to impress."

"You certainly deliver," Mike chuckles, obliging Eliot with a deep kiss. 

Eliot hums against his lips, and just as his eyes slide closed he notices Quentin on the stairs. He doesn't let the kiss last as long as he wants it to, instead twists away from Mike so that he can turn to greet Quentin - but Quentin is already walking away, pointedly not looking in their direction. "Q?" he calls, frowning. "Quentin."

Quentin doesn't respond; can't trust himself to, really, with the way his gut is roiling. If anyone were to ask, he'd blame it on all the drugs in the air, and the heavy scent of lust that seems to permeate most Cottage parties. He sidles through the crowd, intent on putting distance between himself and the bar and finding Julia. The Cottage isn't that big, and Quentin is unsurprised when he finds Julia in the library - but he _is_ surprised to see who she's with. 

Julia is sitting with Penny, her face very close to his, one hand on his thigh. He can't hear what they're talking about, but he can smell the effect it's having on Penny, on both of them, and it's...

Quentin turns abruptly on his heel, deciding that he is _not_ hanging around to get any better idea of what they're up to. Whatever Julia's doing is her own business, and Quentin is not going near Penny if he can help it. Luckily, they don't seem to have noticed him; Julia at least doesn't call out after him. He ducks into the kitchen, giving Josh, whisking something in a bowl, a brief wave on his way to the back yard. It's still noisy, but at least the noise and the _scents_ aren't closed in out here. Quentin takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and blinks when he realizes that he's come to a stop right beside Alice without even noticing. "Oh," he says, floundering briefly, still trying desperately to not-think about Julia and - "Hey, Alice. Nice, uh. Nice night?"

"Are you okay?" Alice asks, ignoring his awkward attempt at small talk. "You smell weird."

Quentin blows out a breath. "I don't know," he admits. "I just saw Eliot and Mike all over each other, then I went to find Julia, and she and Penny were..." He makes a face. "I didn't want to see what happened next."

"Oh," Alice says. She gives him an inscrutable look. "Are you jealous?"

Quentin blinks. "Of who?" he asks, slightly wary. 

Alice shrugs. "Any of them," she says. "I don't think you're interested in Mike, but Penny is an omega, and Eliot is beautiful, and Julia... Well." She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "I know it's not typical for alphas to go for other alphas, but something tells me you'd be into it. You seem like you'd like someone who could boss you around. All three of them fit the bill."

Quentin gapes at Alice, aware of the heat in his cheeks when a chilly breeze blows by. "I - " He swallows, sighs. "I _did_ have a crush on Julia, when we were younger," he admits. "Grew out of it eventually. Penny is not an option, he's an asshole in the way I really can't stand."

"So, Eliot," Alice says.

Quentin makes a face. "I just - I don't like Mike. There's something about him that rubs me the wrong way, and he... He kinda seems like he ignores Eliot's boundaries sometimes?"

"In what way?" Alice asks, frowning.

Quentin bites his lip. "It's - body language, mostly. El tries to move away, Mike doesn't let him, that sort of thing." He doesn't bring up the incident with Eliot's wards last night; he doubts Alice would go talking about it, but. Eliot had been so upset that Quentin had heard _anything,_ but Mike had been... almost smug. 

"Eliot doesn't strike me as the kind of person who would let an alpha push him around," Alice says carefully. "Maybe he likes it."

Quentin shakes his head. "No, he - he even _smells_ uncomfortable when Mike does that. It's not even really pushing him around? But it... It's uncomfortable to watch, and I don't think Eliot is any more comfortable having Mike ignore him like that. Or maybe Mike pays him too much attention?"

"Then it sounds like maybe you need to talk to him alone," Alice says. "If he's as controlling as you think he is, Mike isn't going to let that kind of conversation happen while he's around."

Quentin sighs. "That's the problem; he's always around."

"Hmm," Alice says. She sighs. "Well, I guess wait until Margo comes back? She'll deal with it, with or without an audience."

Quentin snorts, but he's smiling, just a little. "Yeah. And she knows Eliot better than I do, so... I think that’s probably the right thing to do? I mean, I've only known him for a while. She's got a year on me."

Alice searches his face for a long moment, her mouth turned down at the corners. "Try not to worry in the meantime," she advises him. "Margo will be back soon."

* * *

A lot sooner than they expected, it turns out. The next morning Quentin is rudely awoken as his bedroom door is flung open so violently it smacks into the wall beside it. " _What fresh hell is this?_ "

Quentin wakes with a shout - _not_ a scream, thank you very much - and nearly falls out of the bed. It takes him a moment to untangle himself from his sheets, swearing the whole time, and then he glares half-heartedly at Margo. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Margo slams the door behind her with just as much force and advances on Quentin. "I just walked into Eliot's room and found him _spooning_ with that Mike guy. _Naked_."

"How is that my business?" Quentin asks, confused. "Mike's his - whatever the fuck they are."

" _Why_ are they still fucking?" Margo hisses, as if Quentin hasn't even spoken.

"How should I know?" Quentin demands. "They've been all over each other since I got back from Brakebills South. Maybe they just like each other that much."

Margo rolls her eyes. "We'll deal with your petty alpha bullshit later," she says. "This is serious. It's disgusting. It cannot be allowed to continue."

Quentin frowns. "Why not?" he asks, ignoring her jab about his 'petty alpha bullshit.' "It's not our business."

"It's my business," Margo snaps. "Every spell he casts, every cock in his mouth, every thought in his head is my business. If you don't give enough of a fuck to put a stop to it, I will."

"Of course I give a fuck about him," Quentin retorts. He stops, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. "I - Look, I don't think Mike is good for him. He does these things sometimes, and El smells... Not anxious, but uncomfortable. But I don't know how to talk to Eliot about that. We aren't close, not like you two are."

Margo snorts derisively. "Of course you're not close like we are," she says. "Just leave it to me. Mama will take care of this."

Quentin makes a face when Margo calls herself 'Mama,' but doesn't say anything except for, "Good luck. Mike seriously creeps me out."

Margo gives him a sharp smile. "I don't need luck, baby."

Quentin watches her go, and thinks, not for the first time, that he's kind of glad he isn't an omega, because he would never survive it if he caught Margo's eye. 

* * *

Margo waits only long enough for Eliot and Mike to come downstairs before she pounces. She catches them at the bottom of the stairs, latching onto Eliot's arm and giving Mike a smile that has far too many teeth. "Mike, why don't you go whip up something for breakfast, give me and El a chance to catch up. I have _so many_ stories to tell him from Ibiza."

"Bambi!" Eliot cries, delighted - but he does turn to give Mike a kiss before Margo can drag him away. "I'll be in in a little while."

Mike gives Margo a bemused look, but she ignores him, looping her arm with Eliot's and leading the way past the bar and into the Cottage library. She shuts the door with a wave of her hand, locks it for good measure - and then turns on Eliot. "What the _fuck,_ " she starts, "are you doing _still sleeping with him?_ "

Eliot blinks at her. "I told you," he says. "I want to see where this goes. I like him."

"Eliot, honey. None of your friends like him," she sighs. "I don't know what you see in him, but - and I'm not just being territorial, here - he weirds me the fuck out."

"Bambi," Eliot says, with infinite patience. "You don't like him for the same reason you don't like Quentin. And that's bullshit, too."

"No, I'm pretty sure I know why I don't like either of them, and while I don't particularly care for Quentin, at least _he's_ not a creep who fucking ignores boundaries and is pushy as shit."

"Who the hell has told you that?" Eliot demands.

"I have _eyes,_ El," Margo hisses. "And we both have friends outside each other." While waiting for Eliot to come downstairs, Margo had run into Alice - she and the beta weren't _friends,_ but she knew Alice and Quentin had a weird almost-friendship thing going on, and she'd asked Alice what she thought of Mike. She hadn't been surprised when Alice admitted she didn't like him, either; she hadn't talked to him, but he gave her creepy vibes, the way he hung all over Eliot, she'd said. Margo wasn't going to name names to Eliot, though. 

"You should know better than to believe idle gossip," Eliot shoots back. "They're just jealous, and so are you. I'm not saying he's mate material, but I like him. Let me have this."

Margo makes a frustrated sound. "Let you have what, exactly? A relationship with an overly-pushy alpha who creeps out literally everyone who knows him for a few days but you? El, baby, read the fucking writing on the wall."

Eliot strides for the door, done. "If you can't handle the fact that I've got another alpha in my life, that sounds a lot like a you problem, Bambi. Deal with it before you talk to me again."

Margo watches him go, and doesn't resist the urge to cast a quick soundproofing charm and indulge in a good, long curse streak. 

* * *

She gives Eliot a day to think over what she's said, but when it becomes apparent that nothing is going to change, she goes to Quentin. She finds him studying with Alice in the living room, and doesn't hesitate. "You," she says, snapping her fingers at him. "Upstairs. Now."

Quentin blinks at her, exchanges a glance with Alice - but doesn't argue. He marks his place in his book and gets to his feet. "Alright," he says, setting the book down. "Where, upstairs?"

"My room," Margo says. "Chop-chop."

Alice now looks distinctly amused, and Quentin rolls his eyes at her before obediently following Margo out of the living room and up the stairs. He doesn't say anything until they're in her room, with the door shut and locked and her wards activated. "What's going on?"

"I can't get through to Eliot," Margo says, her scent bitter with frustration. "So as much as I hate to admit it, I'm going to need you to find your fucking knot and deal with this."

Quentin blinks, and doesn't answer for a long moment. "If he isn't listening to you, what makes you think he'll listen to me?" he finally asks. 

"How the fuck should I know?" Margo cries. "But I'm getting desperate - and I do not _do_ desperate."

Quentin bites back his first retort, and nods. "Alright, I'll talk to him, if you can get Mike out of the way."

"I'll turn him into an ice cube if I have to," Margo snarls. "And I'll take great pleasure doing it."

* * *

Margo ends up enlisting Alice's help to distract Mike that evening during the Sunday night party. She can't suddenly take an interest in Mike's graduate knowledge, considering that she's made her dislike of him perfectly clear, but _Alice_ hasn't interacted with Mike at all, yet. So, in exchange for an hour to study Margo's cryomancy, Alice lures Mike away from the bar. Quentin takes the opportunity to approach for a refill while it's relatively quiet, and gives Eliot a smile. "Back to business as usual, huh?" he asks, pitching his voice to be heard over the noise of the party, back to its usual levels since everyone's returned from Ibiza.

"Of course," Eliot says with a smirk. "I'm surprised to see you down here, though. This kind of party isn't usually your thing."

Quentin shrugs. "Not usually, but... I don't know. I wanted to come tonight, at least for a little bit."

"Well, we're glad to have you," Eliot says, smiling, and gestures for Quentin's glass. "What are you drinking?"

"Keeping it simple, tonight," Quentin answers. "Rum and coke."

"So by 'simple' you mean 'boring'," Eliot says, but he reaches for the rum regardless.

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "How have things been with Mike? I haven't seen a lot of you, lately."

"They're good," Eliot says, without hesitation. "I guess I've been a little neglectful lately. I'm just trying to settle into the whole monogamy thing."

Quentin hums a thoughtful noise. "Did you... figure out what happened with your wards?" he asks, careful. 

Eliot arches an eyebrow as he slides Quentin's glass over the bar towards him. "I guess I just let them slip," he says. "They don't last forever; I hadn't renewed them for a few months."

Quentin nods, then takes a deep breath, fiddling with his glass. "I - Mike didn't seem really... concerned. About how upset you were. And I've noticed he kinda - does that a lot?"

Eliot frowns. "What do you mean?" he asks. "I was-- embarrassed, I guess. It's no secret around here that I enjoy sex, but I'm fairly sure that inflicting that enjoyment on unwilling ears blurs some consent boundaries. I don't think I was _upset_ , and even if I was, it's not like it was Mike's fault. Mike's great."

"I'm not saying it was Mike's fault," Quentin corrects hastily. "Just - I've noticed he doesn't seem to. I don't know, get the hint a lot of times? It seems like he ignores when you try to put some space between you or something."

To his surprise, Eliot actually laughs. "Quentin," he says. "Are you trying to defend my honour?"

Quentin flushes. "It's not that, I just - I don't like Mike, he rubs me the wrong way. I just... want to make sure you're happy, and I know that relationships aren't always rainbows and sunshine, but. Ignoring when your partner's uncomfortable is kind of a red flag, especially if he's doing it on purpose."

Eliot's expression darkens. "Margo sent you over here," he says.

Quentin sighs. "I sent myself, El," he says. "Look, if he _really_ makes you happy, then I won't say anything else, I swear. But there's something about him and the way he acts around you that rubs me the wrong way, and I don't want you to get hurt. And if you ever want to talk in the future, I'll listen, but this is the only time I'll bring it up. Just... two of your friends are really concerned about him, and you _know_ at least one of them isn't possessive, so. It might be something to think about."

"It isn't," Eliot says, his voice tight. "Mike knows me. He's seen parts of me no one else has. If I smell uncomfortable, it's because I'm not used to the way he treats me. But I like it. Don't mistake me for some damsel omega who needs protecting from the big bad alpha. I know what I want, and Mike's providing it in spades."

Quentin holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Alright, if you say so. I've said my piece." He takes his glass and slides off the barstool. "I'm going to go find Julia. See you later, El."

Eliot gives him a curt nod. "Try to enjoy yourself tonight."

* * *

Quentin and Margo don't have a chance to talk until two days after that party. they've both been busy with classes, but Tuesday evening, Margo finds Quentin in the kitchen. He's heating up some leftover pizza, Alice in the kitchen with him, and Mike and Eliot are... Well, they're in the living room, curled up together, each of them lost in different books. Quentin's noticed that they've spent more time together like that lately, and Eliot seems... Well, he seems to be happy. There's something different about the way he carries himself, and something about his scent that Quentin can't quite place, but guesses must be related. 

He waits until Margo draws closer before nodding towards the couple on the couch. "They've been doing that a lot, lately."

Margo's lip curls. "I know," she sneers. "It's disgusting."

"A little, but. Eliot does seem happy."

"He wouldn't know what happy was if it bit him on the ass."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Look, I know he's your best friend, but... Maybe we should back off, just a little? I mean, he even _smells_ different, now. I'm not saying we quit watching Mike, but..."

"But what?" Margo asks. "What are you saying?"

"Eliot isn't going to listen to us," Quentin sighs. "He walked away from you, and he snapped at me. So... let's try being civil, and keep an eye on him that way."

Margo narrows her eyes. "Are you being devious?"

Quentin shrugs. "Proactive, maybe? So when he eventually shows his true colors, we can do damage control."

Margo stares at him, something unreadable in her gaze. "You really care about him, don't you?"

Quentin shrugs, aware of Alice's pointed gaze. "He's a friend. I know you don't really approve of me, either, but. Yeah, I do care about him."

"I don't approve of you because you're dangerous," Margo tells him, "and you don't know it. Mike is dangerous and he does know it. There's a difference."

"O...kay," Quentin says, frowning in confusion. He glances at Alice, who looks between him and Margo with wide eyes before her expression turns thoughtful. She shakes her head when Quentin gives her a questioning look, and Quentin turns back to Margo. "Well, I don't want Eliot to get hurt, regardless. So..."

Margo rolls her eyes. "Fine," she says. "I'll play nice. But if he even so much as changes his tone towards El, I'll cut him up."

Quentin laughs. "I wouldn't dream of trying to stop you."

"You're too soft, Coldwater," Margo says. "Come on."

Eliot manages to peel himself off of Mike long enough to look up at them as they approach the couch. His eyes narrow dangerously. "Are you lost?"

Quentin points at Margo. "I'm just following her."

"Budge up," Margo says, and squeezes herself onto the couch beside Eliot. "We're being nice. Don't be an asshole about it."

"But why?" Eliot asks.

Quentin settles into the armchair on Margo's end of the couch. "Because we're your friends, and we want to spend time with you?" he suggests dryly. "And you've spent most of your time with Mike, lately."

" _Mike_ is right here," says the man himself, bone dry.

"Yeah, exactly," Quentin says. "We gave you guys like, a week, but you're still in that honeymoon phase, and we miss our friend. So, here we are."

"To hang out with both of us," Eliot says, and Margo shoves him.

" _Yes._ Shut up about it or we'll leave."

"Oh, no," Mike says, sliding his hand casually over Eliot's leg. "Please stay. Eliot's missed you."

"No I haven't."

Mike squeezes gently. "Baby."

Eliot sighs. "Fine. Maybe I missed you a little bit, but you've been being assholes."

"Well, that's why we're here now, to quit being assholes," Quentin says. "Don't make a big deal of it."

"Fine," Eliot says, "as long as you both behave."

Margo gives him a winning smile. "Have I ever let you down?"

* * *

Margo and Quentin keep their truce with Mike for a week. It's a little difficult at times, but they still get together once or twice and bitch about Mike, comparing notes about his treatment of Eliot. They still aren't reassured, and they definitely still don't _like_ him, but they do their best to be civil, at least in public and around Eliot. 

The weekend after that first awkward afternoon, the weather is good enough for a picnic. They're heading into late fall now, and the weather will take a turn for the worse soon, so most of the Cottage is out on the back lawn taking advantage of one of the last nice days of fall to have a day-long picnic. Some of the students from other disciplines join in, and soon there's a merry party going on. 

Quentin, Alice, Julia, Penny, and Kady - Penny in between Kady and Julia on the opposite side from Quentin - have spread out a large blanket a good distance away from most of the others. Despite the clear tension between Penny and Quentin, they manage to have a perfectly pleasant afternoon, chatting with whoever wanders by their blanket and enjoying good food and drinks. 

The air has taken on a distinct chill by the time Margo, Eliot, and Mike finally settle onto the free space of their blanket. They've spent most of the day playing host, and Margo's got her hand wrapped around an almost comically large sangria as she sits next to Quentin, leaning bodily against him. "God, outdoor parties are a bitch to plan," she announces. "I'm almost glad winter is almost here."

"Doesn't Brakebills practice weather management?" Alice asks, frowning.

"Yes," Eliot says around the cigarette in his mouth. He lights it, takes a drag, and then lets it go with a steady stream of smoke, politely directed away from the others. "But the seasons have to change eventually. Balance and all that bullshit. We tend to go straight from summer into a really harsh winter and then back to summer."

"Gotta have a white Christmas," Margo drawls, rolling her eyes. "At least we don't have to drive anywhere in fucking New York winter weather."

Quentin shares a sympathetic wince with Julia and Kady. "Even getting around the city is awful in winter," he says, grimacing. 

"Do they change the weather back right after Christmas?" Julia asks, curious. "And what do most people do for the winter break?"

"They change it after New Year’s; Physical kids always throw a hell of a New Year's rager," Mike says with a grin. "At least, they did when I was here."

"I'm in charge now," Eliot says, laughing. "What do you think?"

"Lots of alcohol and drugs, maybe some tasteful public nudity," Julia laughs. 

"Oh, she's got your number, El," Margo laughs.

Eliot grins. "You'll all have to show up and find out."

The conversation drifts then, segueing into talk of plans for the rest of Christmas break, pre-rager. Unsurprisingly, pretty much everyone in their group plans to stay on campus; Quentin is the exception, as he's one of the only ones there on good terms with his family. Margo and Eliot have plans to go into the city and take advantage of holiday sales, but otherwise they'll stay at the Cottage, indulging themselves in more of Eliot's excellent cooking, and the Nature kids' _extraordinary_ baking. "Last year, there were brownies and cookies and cupcakes as far as the eye could see," Margo sighs. "At least two-thirds of them had various magic drugs baked into them."

"Only two-thirds?" Mike asks, laughing as he reaches for one of the pumpkin cupcakes from the very same Nature kids they were just discussing. He unwraps it and takes a bite. "They're slipping."

"Hoberman is all about quality, not quantity," Eliot says, turning to look at Mike. "It was good shit, trust me. Oh." His expression softens, and he reaches up to brush his thumb against the corner of Mike's mouth. "Crumbs."

Mike's own expression goes soft, tender, and his words almost - but not quite - go unheard beneath Margo's gagging noise. "My good omega," he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss against Eliot's cheek. 

Eliot freezes, his jaw slack with shock. Margo reacts first.

"What the _fuck_ did you just say?" she demands, low and dangerous.

Mike goes still, but before he can say anything, Kady snarls, "We all heard him. Fucking lucky he didn't say it any louder." She's leaning into Penny, who is staring in shock between Mike and Eliot, and giving off clear omega-in-distress vibes. Julia's matching Kady and Margo in fury, and Quentin is - Quentin is looking at Eliot with wide eyes, like his whole world just tilted on its axis. 

Eliot is... mortified. His scent is sour with anxiety, with terror, but he still hasn't moved. Why can't he move?

Alice is moving, her hands twisting in her lap. A faint shimmering goes up around them, and she murmurs, "No one can see us right now, or hear us."

Eliot still hasn't so much as breathed.

"All right, asshole," Margo spits. "Time for you to go."

Mike's eyes go wide, and he scrambles to his feet as Julia and Kady move in tandem, lunging to theirs. "I don't - I thought you all _knew_ ," he protests - but there's something off in his tone, in his scent. No one pays him any mind, and before he can trip out of Alice's wards, Julia and Kady each have a vice-grip on his arms. 

Julia looks to Margo, while Kady glares at Mike, her fingers digging into his arm hard enough for her nails to draw blood. "What should we do with him?"

"I'm all for beating the shit out of him, but I don't think anyone wants a scene," Kady growls.

"Just get him the fuck out of here," Margo growls. "I don't care what state he's in after."

Julia and Kady share a look, communicating without words, and then they maneuver Mike away from the group, looking for all the world like they're just going for a walk. They march him right into the Cottage, and only when they're gone does Quentin find his voice. "What the _fuck?_ " he says, bewildered. "That - You don't just blurt something like that out."

Penny shoots him a quelling look. "Shut up, Coldwater. Margo, maybe you should get Eliot out of here? He looks like two seconds away from passing out."

Margo is already moving, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on Eliot's arm. "El? Baby?"

Eliot flinches violently, and when he finally looks up it's to meet Quentin's gaze. He's already deathly pale, but whatever he sees in Quentin's eyes turns his face sheet white. "I have to go," he says, and then he's on his feet, striding purposefully away from the Cottage.

"Fuck," Margo spits, scrambling to follow him. "Eliot, wait!"

Eliot doesn't look back.

She catches up to him just as he reaches the boundaries of the campus wards, and only then because he's shaking so hard he can't perform the tuts that would get him into the heart of New York. "Fuck off, Margo," he snaps, and he hates the way his voice breaks on her name. "Leave me alone."

"No, El," Margo says, firm, as she draws up to his side. She doesn't reach out to touch him yet. "You shouldn't be alone right now, honey."

"I don't need your pity!" Eliot snaps, vicious.

"It's not fucking pity!" Margo snaps back, uncowed. "You're my best goddamn friend, Eliot, and you're upset, and I'm _worried_ about you, asshole!"

"Well you don't need to be," Eliot spits. "I've learned my fucking lesson, okay?"

Margo sighs. "It's not that simple, El, and you know it. He hurt you, and you're upset, and you have every right to be."

"What do you want from me?" Eliot demands. "Do you want me to cry? Do you want me to tell you you were right? Because you were. Mike's an asshole, and I fell for it, because I'm a stupid, knot-whipped omega."

"I'm not that fucking insensitive," Margo huffs. "I just - I want to be here for you, baby. I don't want to say 'I told you so,' I don't want anything but to be here so you don't deal with this alone."

Eliot doesn't answer for a long moment. He's still shaking; he's all over the fucking place; his mind and his heart are racing so fast he can't keep up. At last, he says, very quietly. "I don't know what to do, Bambi."

Now Margo does reach out, wrapping her arms around Eliot. "Let me take you off-campus," she murmurs. "We'll find somewhere anonymous, maybe get drunk, and come back tonight and we'll finish getting fucked up in my room."

Eliot is powerless to do anything except hug her close. "Okay," he whispers.

* * *

Quentin, Alice, and Penny make their way into the Cottage just in time to see Kady literally boot Mike through the door that Quentin recognizes as a portal to some pub in London. Julia watches on with a satisfied look on her face, and then she, Kady, and Penny go - somewhere. Quentin isn't sure where; he also doesn't see where Alice has gone, already turning to make his way up the stairs and into his room, still reeling with the revelations of the afternoon. 

Eliot is an omega, apparently - Mike hadn't been teasing, not if Eliot and Margo's reactions were any indication. He's an omega, and for some reason, he's hidden it. Quentin doesn't blame him for that - even if, a little selfishly, he wishes that Eliot had confided in him instead of the guy he'd known for three weeks - but... It's still a shock. Eliot hides his designation _really_ damn well; he doesn't smell like an omega - except, maybe now he kind of does? But Quentin can’t figure out why that might be, he’d chalked it up to Eliot being happy with Mike - and he certainly doesn't _act_ like one. But then again, neither does Penny. Maybe Quentin shouldn't judge what omegas 'should' act like, since obviously those expectations are bullshit.

Quentin loses a couple of hours in his room before a knock rouses him from his thoughts. It takes him a moment to get his feet working and get off of his bed; he's not sure who he was expecting - hoping - might be on the other side of the door, but he blinks at the sight of Alice. "Oh, um. Alice, hey," Quentin says, a little thrown. "What's going on?"

Alice looks awkward, like she hadn't really been expecting Quentin to answer the door, but she soldiers on. "I just wanted to check on you," she says, "make sure you're okay."

Quentin blinks again. "Why wouldn't I be okay?" he asks; he steps back, gestures for Alice to join him in his room. He shuts the door behind her before he continues. "I'm not the one who just got - fucking _outed_ by my supposed boyfriend."

"No," Alice admits, "but you are Eliot's friend. I'm guessing that was quite a shock."

Quentin frowns, not harshly, but puzzled. "What, it wasn't for you?"

Alice takes a breath. "No," she says. "I knew. Or at least I suspected."

"What? How? Since when?"

"Since Margo told you that you and Mike were both dangerous to him, but that Mike was the only one who knew it," Alice says. "Margo is very protective of Eliot, but it's worse when there's an alpha involved. It just made sense to me."

Quentin considers that for a moment before he sighs. "Yeah, it does make sense. I just - How the fuck could Mike _do_ that? Eliot trusted him so much, went to bat for him with me and Margo, and then he pulls that? God, Eliot must be so upset."

"You need to be there for him," Alice says. "He's really going to need his friends right now."

Quentin blows out a breath, reaching up to run a hand harshly through his hair. "I know, but - I have no idea how I'm supposed to act. He obviously didn't want anyone to know about this - Margo probably only knows because they were Trials partners last year - and I don't want to make it a _big deal_ but I also don't want to just. Ignore it? But historically I have a very hard time walking that line."

"Just ask him what he needs," Alice suggests. "Don't treat him differently because of it."

Quentin sighs. "That's the last thing I want to do," he says. "I - " A sound in the hallway that sounds suspiciously like someone stumbling into the wall and giggling catches his attention, and Quentin exchanges a look with Alice. He heads for the door, tugging it open, and pauses when he realizes what he's seeing. "Are... you two okay?"

"Oh, shit," Eliot whispers loudly, and slides another inch or so down the wall. "Margo, it's Quentin."

"I see," Margo whispers back, and Quentin abruptly realizes that they are both absolutely _smashed._

"Did you two drink out an entire bar or something?" he asks, amused, as he cocks one hip against his doorframe. "Sure you can find your rooms?"

" _Room,_ " Margo corrects imperiously. "El's staying with me."

"My room is dead to me," Eliot agrees, louder now. "Fuck my room."

Quentin shakes his head, but he's still smiling; the smile softens, turns just a little uncertain as his focus shifts to Eliot. "Anything I can do?"

Eliot's expression turns sullen. "I don't need your help, Q."

Quentin's eyes widen. "I was just asking," he says carefully. "Because you're my friend, and I want to help."

"I already have an alpha," Eliot slurs. "I don't need you."

Quentin tries not to let his hurt show in his voice or his face; Eliot... is very drunk, and hurt, and probably didn't mean that the way it sounded. "Okay. Goodnight, El."

Margo gives him an unreadable look and practically pries Eliot off of the wall. "Come on, baby, let's go to my room. I've got some of that good white wine tucked away."

Quentin can do nothing except watch them disappear behind Margo's door.

* * *

Eliot and Margo don't come out of Margo's room until noon the next day. Quentin is in the living room when Eliot finally ventures down the stairs, making a beeline to the kitchen. He gives Eliot a few minutes - using those same minutes to psych himself up - before he follows. He doesn't bother pretending that he's doing anything other than checking on Eliot, leaning against one of the cabinets as Eliot fusses with the stove. "Hey," Quentin says, a little tentative. "How are you doing?"

"I feel like death," Eliot admits, without looking up. "Margo requires bacon, though, so here I am."

Quentin smiles. "Can't keep her waiting," he agrees. "You two seemed... pretty smashed last night. Bacon is probably a necessity."

Eliot winces, and finally turns to look at Quentin. "I'm sorry," he says. "I spoke to you like shit last night, and you didn't deserve it."

Quentin takes a deep breath. "I appreciate that. But you were drunk, and hurt. I get why you did."

Eliot hums, and turns back to the stove. "I'm also sorry I didn't tell you," he says. "Or. Maybe I'm not sorry, because I didn't want you to know. But I'm sorry you found out like that."

"No, you don't need to apologize for that," Quentin protests. "You had reasons for keeping it to yourself, and I respect that. And it's not your fault that it came out like that."

Eliot smiles, a horrible, twisted thing. "Beg to differ."

"Eliot, you aren't responsible for someone else's shit decisions, even if you trusted them," Quentin says gently.

Eliot shrugs. "Maybe," he says. "Maybe not. Too late now, either way."

Quentin frowns. "You know that none of us are going to say anything, right? We all care about you, and frankly Margo would probably murder us."

"I appreciate that," Eliot says. "But if I can't even trust my own boyfriend to keep his mouth shut..."

"You only knew him for a few weeks," Quentin points out, not unkindly. "You've known all of us for longer, and Margo for longer than that. The only people we gossip to are each other."

"And God only knows what you've all been saying."

"Worrying about you, and wondering how the hell he explained ending up in London," Quentin answers with an attempt at a smile. "You're our friend, El. We care about you too much to be mean about this"

"I'm incredibly grateful for that," Eliot admits, though he doesn't turn to Quentin to say so. "I think I'm going to need a little while until I can show my face again."

Quentin's smile is understanding. "Tell Margo I said hi?"

"Of course," Eliot says. "Thanks, Q."

Quentin smiles. "Anytime," he says, and before he thinks, raises a hand to gently touch Eliot's shoulder, a gesture of comfort - and maybe to try to help cover that last little bit of goddamn _Mike_ in Eliot's scent. It's something he's done with Julia countless times, a gesture she's used on him in return, and so he thinks nothing of it. 

Eliot jumps out of his skin, the frying pan skidding across the hob with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. "I'm sorry," he says, immediately, even as he curls in on himself. "I didn't--"

Quentin's already snatched his hand back, and he looks at Eliot with a wide-eyed, dismayed gaze. "No, you don't need to - _I'm_ sorry, I shouldn't have - " His mouth shuts with an audible _click,_ and he gives Eliot another apologetic look before he bolts, figuring that's the best damage control he can do right now for his stupid, _thoughtless_ fuck-up. 

* * *

Quentin keeps his distance from Eliot after that, and Eliot keeps his distance from everyone, so it's kind of a surprise when Margo barges into his room after class two days later, looking furious. "What the hell is your problem, Coldwater?"

Quentin frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, where the fuck are you?" Margo demands. "What do you have going on that's so important?"

"Um, classes?" Quentin says, still confused. "What are you yelling at me for, Margo? Then maybe I can give you a good answer."

"Eliot!" Margo spits. "You've barely said a word to him since your weird kitchen moment. What is your problem?"

"I don't - There's no _problem,_ " Quentin protests, bewildered. "I've been giving him space!"

"He doesn't need space! He needs to know his friends haven't abandoned him!"

"That's not what I thought!" Quentin shoots back. "For fuck's sake, he jumped away from me like he was burned, and then he's spent the past two days holed up with _you!_ What part of any of that tells me that he wants to spend time with any of his friends but you?"

"You'd be right," Margo says, "if you were anyone else. Eliot likes you for some reason. God knows why, but he values you more than any of the other time-wasters in this place. The fact that you've barely been near him since you found out feels like a rejection. So if that's what it is, I need to fucking know. Now."

Quentin's eyes go wide. "It's not a rejection!" he blurts, a little too fast. "God, no, I just - I thought he didn't want anyone else near him, especially not another alpha he barely knows, compared to you, and I - I didn't want to overstep, since - " Here, Quentin finally manages to make himself shut up, but he's already give away too much. 

Margo's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Since what?"

Quentin hesitates, briefly considers self-immolation as a way to escape this conversation. After concluding that Margo would just ice him and then thaw him to get some answers, he sighs. "Since I'm an alpha who's interested in him," he confesses. "I have been for a while. I just... didn't say anything because I didn't think _he'd_ be interested, and then there was Alice, and then he was with Mike, and there just wasn't a chance for me to say anything. Even just to figure out if he might be interested in more than just a fuck."

"I fucking knew it," Margo hisses. "I fucking knew you were just sniffing around after him all this time. What is it, does he satisfy your daddy kink?"

" _What?_ " Quentin stares at her, mouth agape. "That - What the _fuck,_ Margo? No! There is no - no _daddy kink,_ or any sort of ulterior motive! Did you miss the part where I said I didn't _just_ want to fuck him?"

"Come on, this is Eliot we're talking about. Everyone wants to fuck him."

"Well, yeah, and I'm not trying to say that isn't part of it? But I don't just want to fuck him. I want - " He blows out a harsh breath. "I want to be _with_ him, Margo. I don't think I'm in love with him, not yet, but he's not _just_ a friend to me."

"Jesus Christ," Margo groans. "Enough with the sappy bullshit. If you dare say any of this to Eliot, I will render your knot permanently useless, do you understand me?"

Quentin frowns. "Why would I say anything?" he asks. "I have no idea if he’d be interested in that, and his last boyfriend fucking _outed_ him. I doubt he's going to want anything to do with relationships in general for a while."

"That might be the first intelligent thing I've ever heard you say," Margo tells him, cruel. "Still, if you don't get your ass into my bedroom and talk to him, I'll never forgive you, and neither will he. Just know that it's against my better judgement."

Quentin wants to ask why she's even telling him to do it, then, if she's so against him having anything to do with Eliot - but he _does_ have some semblance of self-preservation, so instead, he just nods and ducks around her. 

* * *

Things improve between the three of them after that. Margo still watches Quentin like a hawk, but Eliot barely seems to notice, content to spend time with both of them without questioning the atmosphere. He starts to improve over the next week. No one has breathed a word to anyone outside of the group about what happened with Mike, and once the rest of the Physical kids get over the fact that Eliot's boyfriend has been ousted from the Cottage, things start to go back to normal.

They hold a party the following Saturday; Eliot does his best to play host, and while it's not up to his usual standards, a good time is had by all. Eliot gets absolutely wasted, though Quentin is sure he drank far less than he usually does. He and Margo pour Eliot into bed long before the party wraps up - his own bed, since Eliot stopped sharing Margo's room a few days ago - and think nothing of it, until they wake up the next day.

The scent is thick, heady, overwhelming. It seems to have permeated the entire Cottage, and Quentin wakes up hard, almost panting with need. There's no mistaking it: an omega is in heat.

Still half asleep, Quentin is on his feet and out of his bedroom before he has time to think it through. Once he's out in the hall the scent is even stronger, and he follows it mindlessly until he reaches a closed door.

Eliot's door.

Quentin stares at it for a long moment before the vague feeling of something's-not-right finally coalesces into something more solid: panic. "Fuck," he gasps, trying to do his best not to breathe through his nose. Eliot is in _heat,_ what the fuck is he supposed to do? He can't just barge in there! "Fuck. Um. _Margo!_ "

The door across the hall slams open, and then Margo's there, naked as the day she was born. "Who the actual _motherfuck_ ," she snarls, her eyes wild, "thought it would be smart not to track their _fucking_ heat and ward appropriately?"

"Um, someone who didn't think that was a thing they needed to do?" Quentin hazards, edging away from Eliot's door in a futile attempt to get some space to try to clear his head. "I think Eliot needs - " _An alpha, he needs an alpha,_ I _could be that alpha -_ "you."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Margo spits. "It's Eliot?" She takes a staggering few steps towards Eliot's door, and then rounds on Quentin. "You need to back the fuck off. You need to work damage control with the rest of the house. Keep everyone away from this room."

Quentin immediately backs down, throttling the thankfully-small part of him that wants to challenge Margo. "Yeah, sure, I can do that. Uh - that'll. Be easier once there are more wards. I'll block the hall off? Until they're up? And then maybe get Alice or Todd to help me air out the place."

"I'll take care of the wards once I'm in there," Margo says. "But I'm going to need you to get the fuck away from this door before I open it."

Quentin grits his teeth, breathes through his mouth, and makes himself take a step back. It feels wrong, like he should be moving forward - but Quentin is _not_ the alpha that Eliot needs right now, and Eliot definitely doesn't need Quentin and Margo getting into a fight before Margo goes to help him. It's the latter thought that works more effectively, lets him take another step back, and another, until he's closer to his own bedroom than he is to Eliot's. "Take care of him," he says, needlessly. "Let me know if you guys need anything. I can, like. Leave it outside the room. I don't think he's stocked up anything but alcohol and drugs."

"Water, food, blankets," Margo says. "You should know the drill, even if the only omega in heat you've ever gone near was the one in the video in your sex ed class. But wait until the wards are up."

Quentin makes a face, but doesn't argue. "Alright. Sooner you get in there, the sooner I can get started on that."

"Hold your breath," Margo says seriously, and opens Eliot's door.

* * *

By the time Quentin returns from the kitchen with the necessities, the smell of Eliot's heat is still lingering in the hallway, but there's nothing new coming from his door, and Quentin can breathe a little easier. He leaves his offerings outside of Eliot's door and then begs Alice's help clearing the scent from the hallway and fending off the curious inhabitants of the Cottage. 

There's only so much they can do, however, to keep things quiet. Quentin notifies Eliot's professors, and Alice and Kady cow the rest of the Cottage residents into swearing themselves to secrecy, at least until Eliot has a chance to make a decision about how he wants to handle the news of his true designation himself. Quentin continues leaving food, water, and blankets every day for Eliot and Margo, a selfish little part of him wanting desperately to care for Eliot, despite the way Quentin has to very carefully not breathe too close to Eliot's door. If he doesn't keep himself in check, he fears he'll end up like some creepy stereotype, a knothead alpha desperately trying to catch a whiff of the omega they want, regardless of the omega's feelings. 

Eliot's heat lasts a full week, about three days longer than the average heat _should_ last, and Quentin can't help but worry. When Eliot finally emerges from his room, however, he doesn't give anyone much of an opportunity to check on him before he dives right back into his old habits - a little _too_ enthusiastically. 

Eliot doesn't go to class for another week. He barely leaves Margo's side when she's in the Cottage, and Quentin never sees him without a joint or a pill or a drink in his hand. It worries him, he confides in Alice, but - Who the hell is he to try to get Eliot to stop any coping mechanism? If Eliot's been presenting as a beta since last year, then he's probably gone at least a whole year, maybe longer, since his last heat. Add to that the trauma of being outed by his boyfriend, by an alpha he trusted... Well, Quentin probably wouldn't want to be sober, either. 

Eventually, it has to come to a head, though. Quentin can see Eliot's clinginess wearing on Margo, and he can see the climax coming, foreshadowing writ clear on the walls for anyone paying attention to see. 

He doesn't expect to actually _be_ there, though. 

It's a rare quiet moment, Margo, Alice, Quentin, and Eliot in the Cottage alone downstairs in the middle of the day. Quentin and Alice are studying, and Margo's just started picking on their study music choices, which devolves quickly into a slightly-too-sharp argument. 

"I'm just _saying,_ " Margo huffs, gesturing with the arm not currently trapped by Eliot, "you can't study to, like. Fucking _ballet_ music. Christ, it's hard enough to stay awake when I'm actually watching beautiful, fuckable women and men on stage with this music, how can you stay awake with this shit while _studying?"_

__

"It's soothing," Alice argues. "You can't get too distracted by it. It's the perfect study music."

"Yeah, so soothing I'll be soothed right into snoozing on my notes," Margo retorts. "At least add some movie soundtracks or something, spice it up every once in a while."

"Movie soundtracks with classical music?" Alice asks.

"There's plenty of soundtracks that are more upbeat without being overwhelming," Margo tells her, expression slipping into a smirk. "Or you could let yourself get overwhelmed, take a little _break_ every once in a while. Unwind a bit, maybe let someone unwind _you,_ and then get back to work."

Alice's eyes widen, and then she goes bright red. "I-- That is-- Let's keep to the topic at hand," she snaps. "Quentin, what do you think?"

It's at this point that Eliot leans forward, falling a little against Margo as he does so. Quentin kind of thought he'd fallen asleep. "What _I_ think," he says, "is that we should ask the lizard man."

Quentin and Alice exchange a look while Margo frowns, jostling Eliot slightly. "The lizard man? El, baby, it's just us, Quentin, and Alice here."

"No," Eliot says, pointing at the empty wall across the room. "He's right there."

"Eliot," Margo says, and the tone of her voice makes Quentin feel like he shouldn't be watching this. "How many drugs are you on?"

"I only had a little red pill," Eliot complains, leaning back against the couch once more. "And two pink, and a green." He giggles, a high, girlish sound. "Maybe I shouldn't have taken the green."

"You think?" Margo spits, before she softens again. "Baby, you haven't been sober for a week now. Maybe you should slow down."

"Yeah," Eliot says. "Yeah, you're right." He stares unblinkingly into space for a long moment, and then goes on. "Tell me something. Are my eyes open or closed right now?"

Margo's expression twists. "El - "

"How about now?"

Quentin bites his lip, closing the book in his lap and setting it aside so he can shift, perching on the edge of his seat and ready to stand. "Maybe we should get him up to bed," he suggests quietly. "Let him sleep some of this off."

"You really think he can walk right now?" Margo demands.

"It'd be better than letting him sleep down here," Quentin counters. "I'll help you get him upstairs."

Eliot is in no shape to help at all, so getting him on his feet and up the stairs is quite a production, but luckily there's no one around to see it. He lists dangerously against Margo while Quentin gets the door open, but when Quentin turns back to face them Eliot is blinking owlishly at him. "I'm sorry," he croaks. "Guys, I'm just. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, yeah," Margo says, just the wrong side of impatient. "You're gonna go to bed and sleep it off, and then we'll talk about how sorry you are."

Quentin slips back under Eliot's other arm, and gives Margo a hesitant look. "Maybe... you should take a break?" he suggests carefully. "You've been looking after him all week, I can take care of him for an evening."

Margo explodes. "I don't want a break!" she hisses. "I want my best friend back. We're not supposed to be _this_ , all emotionally vulnerable and pathetic. We're supposed to be HBICs and I don't know how to deal with this!"

Quentin swallows. "I know, Margo," he says quietly. "But _he_ needs a break. Let me look after him tonight, and we can see about trying again tomorrow."

Margo huffs. "Fine," she says, and passes Eliot off to Quentin like he's a small child instead of a grown man. "I'm out. Mama needs a hot bath and a submersible vibrator. Goodbye."

She's gone a moment later, and Quentin, distracted by watching her leave, hears a distinct sniffle from beside him. "I'm fucking everything up," Eliot mumbles, miserable.

"You're not," Quentin murmurs, nudging Eliot to start moving into his room. "You're not fucking everything up, Margo's just not a caretaker and too stubborn to admit it."

"I shouldn't need taking care of," Eliot argues, though he goes into his room willingly and sits down heavily on the bed. "That's why she likes me so much. I'm not supposed to be the needy omega."

"No, she likes you because you're an awesome person," Quentin counters, slipping out from under Eliot's arm once he's sure Eliot won't fall off of the bed. "But everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes." He turns his attention to the dresser, grabs a water bottle still cold with Margo's magic, and holds it out to Eliot. "Come on, drink some water. Need something other than alcohol to keep you hydrated."

Eliot obediently downs half the bottle, and is gasping when he comes up for air. "God, I'm fucked up," he says. He's shaking. "I'm so fucked up. Q. What am I going to do?"

Quentin hesitates for only a moment before he settles onto the bed next to Eliot. "Well. Let's take it one day at a time," he suggests, tone gentle. "Try to get a good night's sleep tonight, get a little sober, and we can start talking more about what to do tomorrow, when you can think straight. Same kind of thing I have to do with my depression, sometimes. Just face it day-by-day."

Eliot eases himself back against his pillows, curling one arm under his head. It's the arm that Quentin was just under, and he watches with his heart in his throat as Eliot buries his nose in his sleeve, inhaling his scent. "I'll be okay," he says, his voice dull. "You can go."

Quentin bites his lip, glancing at the door and debating with himself for a long moment. "Or," he says, very carefully, "I could stay, keep you company? You've got a nice armchair, I can use that if you don't want me on the bed."

Eliot opens his eyes and stares up at Quentin. He looks so small, suddenly. "You'd do that?" he asks.

Quentin nods. "Yeah," he says, not trusting himself to say anything more. 

Eliot screws his eyes shut, curls in on himself even more. "Please stay," he whispers. "Not on the chair."

"Okay," Quentin says, just as quiet. He gets up long enough to toe his shoes off, dim Eliot's lights, and then climb in the free space of Eliot's bed. He leaves some space between them, not daring to press himself against Eliot, to _hold_ him, the way he desperately wants to. The absolute last thing he wants to do is overstep. "Okay?" he checks. 

"Okay," Eliot murmurs. They don't speak after that.

* * *

Eliot might not have been entirely sober when he fell asleep, but he's pretty sure there was at least a good six inches between them. There isn't now. Eliot is plastered to Quentin, his leg thrown over Quentin's hips, his arm flung across his chest, his face buried in the crook of his neck. He's warm, deliciously so, and Quentin's scent is all around him, and it's the middle of the night, and he could stay here safe and sound and no one would _know_ \- but Eliot would. Eliot would know that he allowed the deepest, neediest parts of himself to take advantage of an unsuspecting alpha who was only here with him out of common decency to begin with. And Eliot would hate himself.

But when he tries to roll away, Quentin stirs. He doesn't wake, not entirely, but he does make a sound of sleepy protest and reel Eliot back in until he's secure in his arms once more. Eliot goes cold all over, and then very hot. Whoever Quentin thinks he's with, it's definitely not Eliot. No one wants to touch Eliot like this, not unless they're a sick, scheming bastard like Mike McCormick. Just the thought of his name is almost enough to make Eliot cry out, the omega within him whining pitifully, but he won't allow it. And he won't allow Quentin to feel shame or awkwardness when they wake up together in the morning.

He really does mean to pull away, but with Quentin's heady alpha scent surrounding him, the warmth of his body against his, Eliot can't fight his hold. He doesn't _want_ to. He just wants to curl up like a cat in the hollow of Quentin's throat and stay there forever. He can beat himself up for being a weak, needy omega tomorrow; he can wake up before Quentin and get the fuck out of here to do just that. Quentin will never even know about it.

For now, though, he lets himself sleep.

* * *

He lets himself sleep so deeply, in fact, that he doesn’t wake up before Quentin the way he planned to. Quentin wakes up first, and it takes a long moment for him to remember where he is. He definitely remembers being determined to _not_ push Eliot’s boundaries, and yet - At some point in the night, they’d gravitated together. He’s lying on his back in the middle of the bed, Eliot pressed close to his side, tucked under his arm and wrapped around him. Eliot's scent envelopes Quentin, blending with his own, and it takes a long moment for Quentin to drag his attention away from how _satisfied_ that makes his inner alpha feel. As soon as he does, though, he realizes that they’ve got a problem.

Quentin’s hard. 

Eliot is stirring, and Quentin briefly panics when his leg moves - but thankfully his leg moves _away_ from Quentin’s crotch, and Quentin thinks maybe this won’t be too bad - but Eliot’s movement draws Quentin’s attention to another scent, one he only just learned. 

Eliot’s aroused, too.

Quentin can’t feel anything, but he can smell it, can smell how close Eliot’s scent is to that first day of his heat. It makes his dick throb in his pants, and Quentin swears he can smell an uptick in Eliot’s own scent. His heart plummets; he’s making Eliot feel this way, Eliot’s still-wonky system reacting to the scent of aroused alpha nearby, making Eliot aroused, too. He curses silently, and shifts under Eliot, trying to at least get his crotch further away from Eliot. “El?” he murmurs, giving Eliot a little shake. “Hey. You awake?”

Eliot wakes with a sharp inhale - and promptly goes rigid in Quentin's arms. "Oh, fuck."

Quentin immediately loosens his hold on Eliot, though he can't quite make himself let Eliot go completely just yet. "Hey, it's fine. Little, um. Little embarrassing, but it's fine."

But Eliot's scent is already betraying his misery. "No it's not," he says - and, fuck, is he crying? "Fucking-- Just go, God, just get away from me."

Quentin freezes in shock, briefly caught between the desire to respect Eliot's boundaries and the conviction that there's something more going on. "I - What? El, I'm serious. I'm not - upset, or anything, it's fine. Unless... it's not fine for you?"

"Of course it's not _fine for me_ ," Eliot snaps. "It shouldn't be fine for you! Who the fuck wants a desperate omega getting their needy, disgusting scent all over them?"

Quentin blinks down at Eliot. "It's not disgusting," he says slowly, "and I'm really not bothered by it. I mean, I'm not bothered by the scent? I just - If you really want me to go, I can. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Quentin," Eliot says as he sits upright, his voice ragged like he's been screaming for hours. "I don't need a gallant alpha right now. Put yourself first for once in your goddamn life."

"If I do that, then I'm not leaving," Quentin says firmly, following Eliot up. "Because what I want to do right now is take care of you."

Eliot buries his head in his hands. "Don't lie to me, Q."

"Why would I lie to you, El? You'd just get upset with me, and then Margo would castrate me for making you upset."

Eliot laughs, and then sobs. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm all over the fucking place, and I don't know what to think anymore. I hate this."

Quentin hesitates for a moment before he reaches out, lightly touches Eliot's arm. "I... I have no idea what this is like for you, but. It obviously sucks. But it doesn't - make me think less of you? You're still Eliot, you're still my friend, and I want to help, however I can. Even if that's just letting you rant, or use me as a pillow."

Eliot looks up then, his eyes blazing. "You don't mean that," he spits. "You don't want to sit here and listen to me cry about how much of a fucking idiot I am, trusting a _sociopath_ of an alpha!"

"I don't want to see you punish yourself with drugs and alcohol, either, Eliot!" Quentin retorts. "You are _not_ responsible for Mike's shitty decisions."

"But I am responsible for letting him close enough to destroy my fucking life!"

Quentin freezes, expression pulling into a concerned frown. "What do you mean?"

"He switched out my suppressants," Eliot bites out. "Probably as soon as I told him what I am. Why do you think I went into heat?"

Quentin's eyes widen. "That _fucker,_ " he breathes. "That - _Shit,_ El, I just thought, I don't know, they wore off because you'd been on them for so long, they weren't effective anymore? But if he switched them out... _Why?_ I mean, that's skeevy as fuck, but also really dangerous, like medically."

Eliot deflates. "I don't know," he says. "He didn't exactly stick around long enough for me to find out, after he decided to out me. I guess he just wanted to wife me up. He kept talking about how he was from a traditional family - but I thought that just meant he wanted to work against that, not mould me into the perfect little omega."

"God, I wish Kady had busted out a few of his teeth," Quentin mutters, scowling. His hand is still on Eliot's arm, and he shifts, lets it move up to his shoulder. "Can I - Can I hug you? That is really fucking awful, and if you don't want a hug, that's fine. But you kinda look like you need one."

Eliot shudders beneath Quentin's touch. "Q, if you get your scent all over me right now, I'm not going to be able to rein myself in."

Quentin doesn't answer for a moment - but then he takes a deep breath. "Then don't try to," he murmurs. "Lot of worse things I could do than spend a while holding you."

Eliot literally trembles for a moment, his head bowed - but then he nods.

Quentin shifts on the bed, the hand on Eliot's shoulder sliding across his back so that Quentin can reel him in. Quentin's other arm wraps around Eliot's waist, pressing them together as closely as possible. "Okay?" he murmurs, chin resting on Eliot's shoulder. 

This close, Quentin can feel just how badly Eliot is shaking. "Can I just--" he gasps, and then buries his face in the crook of Quentin's neck, inhaling deeply.

Quentin's heart breaks, just a little, but all he does is pull Eliot in impossibly closer, until he's practically in Quentin's lap. "Whatever you need," he whispers, one hand stroking the length of Eliot's spine, hesitating just below the nape of his neck. "Can I - " His thumb gently rests on the back of Eliot's neck, his question clear. 

Eliot just presses even closer. " _Yes_."

Quentin lets out a slow breath, his hand shifting, wrapping around the back of Eliot's neck. He lets his grip tighten until he's holding it firmly, thumb sweeping over the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. "I've got you," he breathes, eyes sliding closed. "You're safe with me."

Eliot just holds on, and shakes apart in his arms.

* * *

Margo finds them like that some time later. It hasn't been long enough for Quentin's leg, propped up on the bed at an odd angle, to go numb, but when he does finally move it after Eliot pulls away, there's a certain heaviness to it that suggests it wasn't far from being numb. Margo gives Quentin a look that tells him in no uncertain terms that they will be having Words, and starts fussing over Eliot again. She harasses him all the way into a shower, and Quentin takes the opportunity to slip out, head for his own room. He gets changed, tugging on a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans - and if he guiltily slips the clothes that smell so much like Eliot into the very back of a drawer, carefully folded, instead of into his laundry hamper... Well, Quentin is the only one who'll know. 

Margo finds him just as he's shutting the drawer he'd put the clothes from the night before in, and Quentin briefly regrets keying his wards to her as well as Eliot, Alice, and Julia. He takes a deep breath, tries his best not to bristle at the scent of angry alpha in his space, and turns to face the music. 

Margo doesn't keep him waiting long. "What the fuck was that?" she demands. "Why don't you piss on him next time, you territorial cock?"

Quentin sets his jaw, meeting Margo's gaze defiantly. "That was a fucking _hug,_ because he was really goddamn upset," he snaps back. "He told me what Mike did, and I'm not that great with words, so I offered a hug, and he accepted."

"A hug lasts thirty seconds, tops, and even then it's weird," Margo says. "How long did this one last, Quentin?"

Quentin doesn't back down. "As long as he needed it to. Mike really fucked him up, and you're not really the hugging type, Margo."

"He _reeked_ of you!" Margo cries. "His whole room still does!"

"Yeah, well that's what happens when two people spend the night in the same room!"

"And what the fuck were you doing there all night in the first place?"

Quentin crosses his arms over his chest. "Nothing El didn't want me to."

" _Excuse_ me?"

Quentin lifts his chin. "He asked me to stay, Margo. We didn't do anything but sleep."

Margo explodes. "He was out of his goddamn mind!" she shrieks. "He was high as a fucking kite and he was vulnerable - you have no idea what that bastard did to him!"

" _He told me,_ " Quentin snarls. "He told me what Mike did to him, Margo! But even before that, he was high, and vulnerable, and _shouldn't have been alone!_ I've been there, Margo, when you're so caught up blaming yourself you start drinking just to keep from thinking too loudly, and shove everyone away because then you can't hurt them, and they can't hurt you. I offered to stay in the armchair, offered to leave if he wanted! _He_ asked me to stay, asked me to stay with him so he wasn't fucking _alone._ You needed a break, yeah. I'm not blaming you for not being there. But don't you dare yell at me for trying to keep one of my best friends safe and let him know he's not alone!"

"Like you didn't love every second of it," Margo sneers. "Say what you want, you took advantage of him."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "You're not going to fucking listen to me, no matter what I say, so what are you still doing here? You made your thoughts perfectly clear, but no matter _what_ you say, I didn't - and _won't_ \- do anything Eliot didn't explicitly ask for or consent to. You know exactly how much he means to me, so you can either accept that you're not the only one who gives a shit about him and let me help you help him through this, or you can keep treating me like I'm the fucking enemy here, and make Eliot feel like shit about the fact that we don't get along, and like it's his fault."

"Fuck you," Margo spits. "I will always put him first, and you're not good for him."

Quentin grits his teeth, hands falling to clench into fists at his side as he steps forward. "Eliot is my best goddamn friend next to Julia," he says, low and firm. "And _you're_ not going to scare me off, Margo. He tells me to take a hike, I will, no questions asked. But I’m not leaving him because you’re being territorial."

"You hurt him," Margo counters, "and I'll skin you alive."

"If I ever hurt him, I'll find you first," Quentin promises. 

This, at last, gives Margo pause. "I can almost respect that," she tells him.

Quentin sighs, his hands relaxing as his shoulders slump. "I'm serious, Margo," he says quietly. "I care about him, and it scares me, a little, how much he means to me after just a few months. I would never knowingly hurt him, and if I ever do, then I don't deserve him. I'd have told you the same thing even before all of this shit with Mike, when I thought he was a beta."

Margo takes a moment to absorb that. "Fine," she says. "Consider yourself on probation."

Quentin blinks, and gives Margo a tentative smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

Eliot improves a little over the next few days. Quentin and Margo seem to be unofficially sharing custody of him, which means they're rarely in the same room at the same time, but that he's never alone. He spends his nights with Margo exclusively, but he sees Quentin a lot during the day, in between classes and before and after dinner. Eliot is claiming to be taking a while to recover from his first full heat since he presented, which is mostly true, so he's still excused from classes for the rest of the week, but Margo is actually being pretty good about keeping him up to date, so he's not in danger of falling behind. All in all, they have a pretty good thing going.

But it can't last forever. Eliot has to show his face sometime, and considering that both Margo and Quentin have banned him from consuming any intoxicating substances, he's going to have to do it sober. It takes him the rest of the week to build himself up to it, but with Margo's help, he chooses a flawless outfit, fixes his hair, and even smudges a little eyeliner underneath his eyes. Just being dressed makes him feel ten times better, but his stomach is still tying itself in knots by the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs on Friday night.

Without his and Margo's influence, the party going tonight is nowhere near their usual standards, but there are still a decent number of people in the Cottage, and of course they're all looking at Eliot. _Fuck._

"Yes, yes," Eliot says, waving a vague hand, his nose turned up like he's bored already. "I'm sure you've all heard by now, but in case you haven't, I am an omega. I will not be taking questions at this time. As you were."

Most of the partygoers take that for the subtle 'fuck off' that it was; a few still stare, but the majority turn back to their drinks and friends. Quentin had situated himself near the bar just in case, and when Eliot makes for the library - the sound of classic eighties rock indicating Josh's presence in his usual haven, the kitchen - he follows. He catches the door before it can swing all the way shut, and leaves it cracked slightly, enough to drown out most of the noise from the party as he clears his throat, announcing his presence. "That went over pretty well," Quentin offers, drawing closer. "How are you holding up?"

"I don't know," Eliot admits. He has his back to the door, his hands braced on the back of a chair. "I'm used to people staring at me, but Jesus. This is completely different."

Quentin makes a sympathetic noise, moving closer until he's standing next to Eliot, close enough for Eliot to lean into if he wants, but far enough away to not be completely in Eliot's space. "Yeah," he says. "They're staring at you for something you can't control. They'll get over it, and anyone who doesn't.... You could always hex them to stick to the ceiling."

Eliot laughs at that, very softly, and he does lean into Quentin, sighing as his familiar, comforting scent mingles with his own. "Lipson still won't let me go back on my suppressants," he admits. "It's one thing for everyone to know the truth; it's another thing for them to be able to smell everything I'm feeling."

Quentin hums, understanding. "Harder to hide," he murmurs. He tilts his head, gives Eliot a teasing look. "You could always do what Penny does."

"Threaten to punch everyone?"

Quentin laughs. "Be so in-your-face about the fact that you're an omega, nobody ever wants to look any closer. Unless they're like Kady or Jules."

"What is going on with them, anyway?" Eliot asks. "Distract me with someone else's drama."

"Oh, god," Quentin groans. "So, Kady and Julia slept together early in the semester, back when they were still rooming together. Then, Penny and Kady slept together, then Penny and Julia. Then Penny got all up his own ass about having slept with two alphas in like, a week, but they weren't put off by his attitude."

"Wonders never cease," Eliot muses. "So what's the outcome?"

"Well, Julia and Kady didn't want to stop sleeping together, and neither of them wanted to stop sleeping with Penny, either. And once he got his head out of his ass, Penny decided he didn't want to stop fucking them, either." Quentin shakes his head, a smile on his face. "So, they decided to see if they could make a triad work."

"So they're all just... fucking?"

"If it weren't for how defensive Penny and Julia get whenever I ask them about it, I'd say so," Quentin laughs. "But I think there might actually be _feelings_ involved. I haven't had a chance to ask Kady what's going on, though."

"She won't give you a straight answer," Eliot says, with a little laugh. He straightens up away from Quentin and twists his hands together until a pack of cigarettes manifests out of thin air. He waves it at Quentin. "You want?"

Quentin squints at the pack in Eliot's hand. "Those are just plain cigarettes, right?"

Eliot raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer something stronger?"

Quentin shakes his head. "No, I'm just making sure," he says, holding out a hand. 

"I'm behaving, Dad," Eliot drawls, placing a cigarette across Quentin's palm.

Quentin makes a face, lighting the cigarette with a fluid motion. "Yeah, no, you better not make that a thing," he snorts, moving towards the window and cracking it so he can blow the smoke outside and away from the magically-protected, but still priceless, books. "That's your kink, not mine."

Eliot barks a sharp laugh. "Oh, sweetheart. If you think I'm calling _anyone_ Daddy, you really haven't been paying attention."

Quentin makes a face at Eliot, but can't hide the way the corners of his mouth twitch. "I meant, calling _yourself _'Daddy,'" he says, rolling his eyes.__

__

____

Eliot exhales a gentle plume of smoke, and gives Quentin a slow, deliberate once-over. "You'd be into it," he decides.

Quentin raises an eyebrow, ignoring the heat that's risen to his cheeks. "What makes you say that?"

Eliot shrugs. "I call them like I see them," he says. He smokes for another moment and then adds, in a rare moment of honesty, "I'm also deflecting."

Quentin's smile is soft. "I figured," he says lightly. "Wanna talk about it, or just smoke?"

Eliot's gaze flickers anxiously towards the closed door. "I'm going to have to go back out there eventually," he says. "Margo will never let me live this down."

"Margo can go suck a dick," Quentin says without hesitation. "There's nothing wrong with needing to take a break, get your head on straight before you go back out. Still wouldn't be wrong if you needed to take several breaks tonight. You need to take this at your pace."

"I need to act like this is a non-issue," Eliot says. "My reputation is at stake, here. I can't become a weak omega in their eyes; they'll never respect me again."

"You are more than capable of making anyone regret thinking you're a weak omega," Quentin reassures him. "Your reputation is important to you, I get that. But your _health_ is important to me and Margo. That includes your mental health, and taking breaks is important for that. You know, recharging, catching your breath, bracing for the next round? Honestly, I think your reputation is in better shape than you think."

Eliot just shakes himself, too keyed up to listen properly. "I need a fucking drink."

Quentin blows out the smoke in his lungs, pushing off of the windowsill so he can touch Eliot's elbow. "I don't think it's smart to have any alcohol, but you could make some virgin drinks? Distract yourself with figuring out how to make them even better than with alcohol, maybe?"

Eliot looks at him with disgust, but he plays along. "Can I use magic?"

Quentin laughs. "Of course."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says. "But if you leave my side, I'll kill you."

Quentin's expression turns sly. "So if I need to take a break from the party, does that mean you'll come with me?"

Eliot pulls a face. "If I must."

Quentin grins, patting Eliot's shoulder comfortingly. "I'll do my best to stick around for your sake."

"Thanks ever so."

Margo is waiting for them when they open the door, her hands on her hips and a fierce scowl on her face. "Todd told me you two were making out in here," she snaps.

"No, I didn't!" Todd protests from somewhere blessedly out of Eliot's line of sight. "I just said you were occupied!"

"Keep your nose out of my business, Todd," Eliot calls back. Margo's eyes narrow, and he sighs. "We were just talking, that's all. Q was showing me a book he's been nerding out over. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go wrestle my bar back from whoever has dared to touch it in my absence."

Quentin laughs. "I doubt you'll need to _wrestle_ it back," he says, following Eliot. "Nobody is better at mixing drinks, and they all know it."

"I'll have to disinfect the entire thing if I find out that Todd's had his grubby hands all over it," Eliot complains.

"Hey!"

Quentin bumps Eliot's shoulder with his own. "Quit picking on Todd," he chuckles. "I'm sure you've put the fear of God into him over messing with your bar already. _Right,_ Todd?"

"Right!" Todd chirps. "I would _never_."

"God," Margo complains. "I'd kill someone for a black Russian right now."

"Your wish, my command," Eliot vows. They approach the bar, and Eliot waves his hand impatiently at the beta behind it, who seems to be in the process of making himself a rum and coke. "Move, you twit. Move."

The beta wisely scarpers, and Quentin settles into his usual seat at the bar, watching Eliot slide behind it like he'd never been gone. "I'm in the mood for something sour."

Eliot hums thoughtfully while he mixes Margo's requested black Russian. "You like tequila, right?"

Quentin nods. "Well, I like most cocktails that have tequila in them," he clarifies. 

"Grapefruit?"

Quentin considers that. "I've never had it in a drink before."

Eliot hands off Margo's glass to her and reaches for another. "Trust me," he says, and gets to work. The cocktail he produces is an inviting pinky-orange, garnished with a wedge of grapefruit and rimmed with salt. "A paloma. Cousin to the margarita you love so much."

Quentin takes the glass with a curious look. "Looks good," he muses, and takes a sip. He pauses, swallows, and takes another. "Huh. That's... interesting."

"Not a fan?" Eliot asks.

"I don't know yet," Quentin says, still thoughtful. "It's not _bad?_ But I don't know if I like it yet."

"Then you don't like it," Margo says, rolling her eyes. "Stop trying to be polite."

"I'll make you something else," Eliot agrees gamely. He's already reaching for another glass.

"Let me finish this first, and form my own opinion, thank you," Quentin snaps, giving Margo a slight glare. "Not everyone forms an instant opinion of everything they encounter."

"If you're going to be a sassy bitch," Margo shoots back, "you can finish it elsewhere."

Quentin raises a brow and settles more comfortably into his seat, taking a pointed sip of the drink he's actually starting to like. "It's not like there's a line of people waiting for their drinks," he points out. "I want to sit here, and there's no reason why I can't."

Margo grits her teeth. "I'll give you one, if you ask nicely."

They both jump when the glass in Eliot's hand shatters. "Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you two?"

"I have no idea," Quentin says. "I _thought_ we sorted our problems out, but obviously not."

"Well, take a walk," Eliot snaps. "You're clogging up the atmosphere with your negative energy."

Margo smiles smugly and sips at her black Russian. "Yeah, Quentin."

" _Both_ of you."

Quentin searches Eliot's expression for a moment before he shrugs. "Alright," he says, hopping down. "I'm going to go have a smoke outside."

Margo watches him go, but makes no move to leave herself. Another glass shatters. "What the fuck is your problem?" Eliot demands.

" _My_ problem?" Margo demands, incredulous. "Why do you think I have a problem?"

"You're being a dick to Q," Eliot says. "Why?"

Margo rolls her eyes. "Because I don't like him," she says. "Do I need more of a reason?"

"Yes," Eliot snaps.

"Fine, then because I don't trust him," Margo huffs. "You're my best friend, you know I'm possessive."

"And it's bullshit," Eliot snaps. "Q isn't a threat. He's been nothing but a good friend this whole time."

"You haven't had the conversations with him that I have," Margo retorts.

"Meaning what, exactly?"

Margo huffs. "Meaning, I know I don't trust him," she says, getting to her feet and leaving her empty drink glass on the bar top. "He's on probation, as far as I'm concerned, and I don't like what I'm seeing."

"Have you ever considered that it's really not up to you, who I hang out with?" Eliot demands.

Margo tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Fine, ignore your best friend's advice," she snaps, turning away from the bar. "Don't come crying to me if things go tits up."

Eliot watches her walk away, and only once she's disappeared into the crowd does he throw in the towel and stalk away from the bar, after Quentin. He is outside smoking, as promised, but he's also talking to Alice. Eliot actually takes a step back when he sees them. "Oh," he says. "Sorry." He turns to go back inside.

"No need to be sorry," Alice says, giving Eliot a smile and standing from where she'd been leaning against the low wall Quentin is sitting on. She brushes off her skirt. "I was about to head inside; I have a project I need to do some more research on, I only really came down for some food and got distracted."

Eliot hopes his scent doesn't give away what he thinks about that. "Still," he says, his gaze sliding past Alice to Quentin. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're not," Quentin says, watching Eliot carefully. "Wouldn't have told you where I’d be if you were. Or I'd be somewhere else."

Eliot sighs, and forces himself to relax. "Then don't go because of me," he tells Alice. "I really just came out for a cigarette."

"I was ready to head inside," Alice says dismissively. "I'll see you later, Quentin."

"See you, Alice," Quentin agrees with a slight smile. The smile remains, if a little more uncertain, as he turns towards Eliot. "No guard dog?"

Eliot pulls a face and pulls a cigarette from the case in his breast pocket. He lights it with a twist of his wrist and brings it to his lips. "Normally I'd hex you for saying that," he says, "but I don't know what the fuck her problem is." He cuts a glance at Quentin. "Do you?"

Quentin shrugs. "I thought we talked out her problem, got to the point where she wouldn't be so fucking hostile, but. Obviously she still has an issue with me, but I don't know what it is."

"What did you talk about?"

Quentin blows out a stream of smoke. "She didn't think I was interested in being your friend just because," he admits. "She thought I had, like. Some ulterior motive, and I’d drop you as soon as I got what I wanted. Despite the fact that _you_ were the one who kept finding me at the start of the semester."

Eliot hisses in irritation. "I'll talk to her," he says. "She can't keep treating you like shit."

"You sure that won't just make it worse?" Quentin asks. "I mean, like, make her more determined _not_ to like me out of spite?"

"Bambi should know better than to spite me," Eliot says. "The territorial alpha thing is getting old. She was protective at first because no one else knew I was an omega, but the cat's out of the bag now, so she has nothing left to protect me from."

"She probably doesn't see it like that, though. She might even feel like there's more to protect you from," Quentin points out. "I mean, there's a reason Penny has the attitude he does."

Eliot pulls a face. "Trust me," he says, "I know."

Quentin gives him an apologetic look. "Yeah. Just - you don't need to yell at her on my account? She doesn't like me, probably never will."

"She doesn't _know_ you," Eliot says, stubborn, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he shivers against the chill in the night air, and cuts his gaze to Quentin once more. "Did you decide if you like the paloma yet?"

"I did," Quentin says, allowing the change in subject. "It was good. I like your margaritas better, though; grapefruit leaves a weird aftertaste."

"Well, you asked for sour," Eliot says, but he's smiling. "I'm cold. Let's go back inside, and I'll make you a margarita."

Quentin snorts. "You've been out here for three minutes," he teases. "It's not _that_ cold."

"We're on the cusp of a magical winter," Eliot says. "You won't be saying that for long. Come on."

Quentin rolls his eyes, stubbing out his cigarette butt and vanishing it. He's still smiling when he hops off of the wall. "Alright," he says. "Lead the way, oh wise one-year-above-me student."

"Is that any way to speak to your elders?" Eliot asks, but he's laughing.

"It is if they're being a dramatic ass," Quentin retorts, cheeky. "I believe you promised me a margarita, Waugh. Chop, chop."

* * *

The next several days fall into a new pattern for Quentin, Eliot, and Margo. Eliot no longer spends every night with Margo, though she still sticks by his side during the day, staying with Eliot as he gets used to going to classes again. Eliot's mornings and evenings are often spent with Quentin, quiet moments where Eliot can brace for the day or recover from it. Eliot's life gets a bit easier when, a week and another, more successful, party later, Lipson finally lets him go back on his suppressants. They're a lower dose than he'd been on before; she wants to ease him back into that higher dose, Lipson explains. Since he's gone through a full heat, so quickly followed by his weeks-long binge, she doesn't want to take any chances with upsetting his system anymore than necessary. 

Eliot feels an almost immediate difference, but it takes a couple of days for someone else to comment on it. He's just coming back from another meeting with Lipson to assess how the new suppressants are working. Eliot walks into the Cottage, half-expecting it to be empty in the middle of the day on a Wednesday, only to find Quentin and Julia on the couch, laughing. Julia clocks him first, and nudges Quentin, who turns to look at the door, smiling when he catches sight of Eliot. "Hey, El," he calls, lifting a hand in a wave. "How'd it go with Lipson?"

"Fine," Eliot says, sparing a smile for Julia. "You two enjoying yourselves?"

"Catching up," Quentin says. "It's been hectic, prepping for finals."

Julia nods, but her expression has turned thoughtful. "I guess the new suppressants are working?" she asks, returning Eliot's smile. "Your scent's changed."

Quentin blinks, and subtly scents the air. "Huh. It has," he agrees, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "More subtle, now."

"Hm," Eliot says, taken aback. "Yes. Ah." He smooths his hands down the front of his vest, straightening wrinkles he already knows don't exist. "I know I can't... I know that people know, now. But that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the other freedoms my original dosage afforded me."

Quentin nods in understanding; Julia looks curious, but doesn't say anything. "Come sit with us," Quentin says, patting the cushion next to him in invitation. "You've got a while until Margo gets back from her meeting with Sunderland, right?"

Eliot's gaze lands on the space beside Quentin for a moment before he forces it back up to Quentin himself. "Yes," he says, "but you two are doing the best friend thing. I should get out of your hair."

"Don't be stupid, you're Quentin's other best friend," Julia laughs. "I don't mind if you join us."

Eliot raises his eyebrows at that, but he does sit down next to Quentin, toeing off his shoes and curling his feet up underneath him. "So what are we talking about?"

"Teasing Julia about her taste in partners," Quentin says, grinning. "Specifically, prickly assholes."

"Just wait until it's your turn, Coldwater," Julia threatens, but she's grinning, too.

"Quentin doesn't like mean people," Eliot says wisely. He cuts his gaze to Quentin. "Not that you wouldn't like someone who was a little mean to you. But you wouldn't date someone who was an asshole in general."

Quentin scowls at Eliot in mock-outrage. "I would date an asshole! Just... a certain kind of asshole. Kady and Penny are mean people, I wouldn't date them. I also wouldn't date Margo."

"Margo's not an asshole," Eliot says dismissively. "She just intimidates you."

"No, she's an asshole," Quentin says, rolling his eyes. "She just likes you so she isn't an asshole to you, and you find her asshole-ness charming."

Julia snickers. "'Asshole-ness'?"

Quentin kicks at her. "Shut up."

"Okay, Q," Eliot says, grinning. "You know yourself so well, what do you look for?"

"Nice, but not a doormat," Quentin says immediately. "Can stand up for themselves, y'know? Also won't take any of my shit, because I know I can be a bit of a bitch sometimes. Someone I can rely on, and who can rely on me; I want a partnership, not some - stupid thing where only one of us is doing the work."

Eliot blinks. "Right," he says. "Of course. But." He takes a breath. "You also want someone who'll spank you a bit, right?"

Quentin goes bright red, and Julia _cackles._ "Oh, Christ, I wish I had a camera," she wheezes, actually falling back against the back of the couch and curling into herself to ignore Quentin's kick. 

"Fucking - _No,_ I'm not answering that," Quentin says, still red. "Unless you're fucking offering, you don't get details on my sex preferences."

Julia gasps for breath and falls off the couch.

"Oh, fuck you," Eliot complains. "Help Julia up; you've almost killed her off, and I want to know all about this fuckery with her two love interests."

* * *

Eliot grills Julia extensively about Kady and Penny, until Julia finally begs for mercy, all but fleeing with the excuse of studying for upcoming finals. Eliot turns to Quentin, only to come face-to-face with one of the decorative throw pillows. "If you even _think_ about trying to grill me like you just did her, I'll knock you silly," Quentin promises, which - Well, _that_ sort of insolence simply can't stand. Suffice to say, Quentin, being the best at mending spells, has to magically repair the two pillows used as makeshift weapons in the ensuing fight before Margo gets back. 

They don't see very much of each other for the next week or so; finals have started, and they're kicking _everyone's_ ass. Eliot's lucky to see Quentin in passing, to get more than a tired smile and a wave as Quentin either dashes to class or stumbles towards his room. Until, at least, Eliot follows the sound of muffled swearing and clanging bowls to the kitchen at three in the morning. He finds Quentin scowling at a book propped on the counter, chin propped on a floury fist. Eliot clears his throat, watching in amusement as Quentin jumps, swearing, and catches himself on the counter. "Eliot!" he yelps. "What - Jesus, that's a scary loom, fuck. What are you doing?"

"I think that question is better answered by you," Eliot says. "You seem to be destroying my kitchen."

Quentin glances at the mess on the counter, expression a little guilty. "I, uh. Wanted brownies? That didn't come from Josh's stash, I mean."

Eliot reviews the state of the kitchen in light of this information, but still comes up short. "Have you ever made brownies before?" he asks.

Quentin worries his lip. "Um. Once or twice? But it's been a while."

"What recipe are you following?" Eliot asks, finally marching over and snatching up the cook book. The cover isn't one he recognises, so it definitely isn't one from his approved list that he keeps on the shelf in the kitchen. "Where did you even find this? Move."

Quentin moves. "Uh, I found it in the library yesterday?" he says, frowning. "Why, what's wrong with it?"

"You're going to end up with over-baked bricks, not brownies," Eliot says. "I'll fix it."

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "How are you going to do that?"

Eliot turns an indulgent look on him. "Do you actually want to learn?" he asks. "Or do you want to just sit down, look pretty, and tell me why we're making brownies at three in the morning?"

Quentin sighs, leaning against the counter. "Finals are kicking my ass," he says. "I just... wanted some comfort food."

"Sit _down_ ," Eliot says, and a dining chair zooms away from the table and up to Quentin. "You look exhausted."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but obediently sits. "It's finals, _everyone's_ exhausted, El."

"You're the only one in immediate danger of passing out in my kitchen."

" _Your_ kitchen? I thought it belonged to the whole Cottage?"

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Then you haven't been paying attention."

Quentin shakes his head, smiling. "Where did you learn to cook, anyway?"

Eliot falters, but only for a moment. "I trained under a Michelin star chef for two years," he says lightly. "And I do mean _under_." He sighs, deep and wistful. "We were going to open a restaurant together, but he lost his knot in a tragic dicing accident, and I lost interest."

Quentin snorts, smiling. "Fine, then. Keep your secrets," he teases. "These brownies better be worth it."

"Don't doubt me," Eliot says. "Even at three in the morning I can still pull off the best brownie you've ever eaten."

"I look forward to eating them," Quentin laughs. "What are _you_ doing up at three in the morning?"

Eliot shrugs. "I couldn't sleep," he says. "Same as you, I guess."

"Anxiety over finals?" Quentin asks, shrewd. 

Eliot shrugs again. "Something like that."

"El," Quentin says quietly, standing so he can reach out, touch Eliot's arm lightly. "You can talk to me. It's just us here."

Eliot barely contains a flinch - and sighs. "I want a drink," he says, the words barely audible. "I just want a fucking drink."

Quentin hesitates for just a moment before he lets his touch firm up. "It must be hard, going sober cold turkey."

"Try fucking impossible," Eliot scoffs. "If you'd told me I had a problem a month ago, I'd have laughed in your face."

Quentin makes a sympathetic face. "I mean, you were... kinda... killing your liver."

"Yeah, no shit," Eliot says. "Lipson isn't sure yet if I've done myself permanent damage, with the booze or the suppressants. Guess it serves me right."

"El," Quentin says, a gentle admonishment accompanied by an equally gentle poke. "You haven't fucked up your system completely; we're Magicians, and so is Lipson. Once we know the full extent of the damage, we'll make a plan to handle it."

"Magic can't fix everything," Eliot says. "Even if it can fix the damage, it can't fix how much I want to do it all over again."

"That's what your friends are for," Quentin points out, not unkindly. "We're here to help you, whatever that looks like. Just like you help us."

"Excuse you," Eliot sniffs. "I am a lone wolf."

Quentin snorts. "You might want to change your behavior, then," he teases. "Because I think you've got too many friends to qualify."

The oven door slams open with enough force to make Quentin jump, and Eliot stoops to slide the baking tin inside. He doesn't answer until he's straightened up, and the oven door has closed itself more calmly. "I don't really know what to do with that," he admits. "It's been just me and Margo for the longest time, and before that I had no one at all."

Quentin blinks. "Really? I'm having a hard time believing you _didn't_ grow up surrounded by a crowd of adoring fans."

"Yeah, well," Eliot says with a tight smile. "The man you see before you took a long time to perfect."

Quentin pauses, and then he returns Eliot's smile with a gentle one of his own. "Well, that effort paid off," he says, shifting so he can bump Eliot's shoulder with his own. "But for the record? I'd have liked any man you were."

Eliot's smile changes at that, becomes soft and a little sad. "Don't say that," he says. "No one liked the man I was. Few people like the man I am now. You saw what happened with Mike."

"Mike's a manipulative fucker," Quentin points out. "His opinion doesn't count. I like you just fine, and you don't get to tell me what I feel."

"I know that," Eliot says. "You don't need to know who I was before. We're friends now; that's enough."

"If you say so," Quentin hums, moving back towards the table and kicking out a chair pointedly for Eliot. "But I don't think there's any version of you I wouldn't like, even if we were like. Two peasants living in a cottage in the middle of nowhere."

Eliot takes the offered seat with a laugh. "Oh God," he says. "We'd kill each other."

"I don't think so," Quentin muses. "I think we'd do pretty well, actually? As long as we were close enough to a town or something for you to socialize with other people sometimes, of course."

"Until you found a pretty beta to marry and produce a brood of children with," Eliot says.

Quentin glances at Eliot, clearly thrown. "What? Where did that come from?"

"Well." Eliot shrugs. "Nowhere. This is all clearly hypothetical."

"Right," Quentin says slowly, feeling like he's missed a step somewhere. "Well, hypothetically, if I'm finding some pretty beta to have kids with, then you're finding a dashing, rich alpha to let you live like a king, then, I guess."

Eliot pulls a face. "I think any interest I had in an alpha died after Mike," he says. "At least an alpha like that."

Quentin glances sharply at Eliot, unable to categorize the strange sensation in his chest, like his heart is beating too fast - or maybe the rest of him is just moving too slow. After a moment, he offers Eliot a smile, small but genuine. "Well. No matter what, I'd still want to be your friend, and have you in my life." He reaches out, nudges Eliot's ankle gently with his foot. "Knowing you has made my life a lot better, El."

Eliot gives him a strange, bemused smile. "Of course it has," he says. "Likewise, obviously."

* * *

Somehow, they make it through finals. Nobody wants to even _consider_ their potential scores - not even Alice - so as soon as the entire student body has caught its breath, they cram into the Physical Cottage for an end-of-semester blowout party. Eliot and Margo have their hands full organizing and running it, but this is exactly the kind of challenge they thrive under. The Cottage is packed to the rafters, and Eliot only saw Quentin briefly as he picked up his usual margarita before disappearing to try to find some quieter corner of the Cottage; he lost track of Margo somewhere in the press of bodies, and hasn’t stopped mixing drinks yet. 

Eventually, there’s a lull in the crowd, and Eliot takes a moment to breathe - a moment that’s quickly interrupted by an alpha sliding up to the bar and giving Eliot what is probably supposed to be a charming smile. “Hey,” he says, lifting a hand. “Can I get a drink?”

"That's why I'm standing here," Eliot says lightly, spreading his hands out to indicate the expanse of the bar. "What can I get you?"

The alpha glances over the bar, frowning slightly. "Got any beer?" he asks. "I don't usually drink all of this - " He waves a hand in an absent way " - fancy shit."

Eliot scoffs, disgusted. "Get out."

"Hey, now," the alpha laughs. "No need to be hostile. Not everyone has super-sophisticated tastes."

"Not everyone is worthy of my time," Eliot says archly.

"There's no call for that; you're the only one here who's passing out drinks," he protests. "Come on, don't be so fucking stuck up."

Eliot arches an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Look, I get that you've got a reputation to uphold, but seriously," the alpha says, seemingly unaware of the danger he's edging closer to. "Some people just want a simple goddamn drink. So pull that stick out of your ass and be a good little omega and grab me a beer, okay?"

Eliot stares at him for a long moment - and then he smiles. "Maybe you misunderstood me," he says. "I am not, nor will I ever be, a 'good little omega', and I certainly won't tolerate being talked down to by a knothead alpha like you. Now get the fuck out, or I will throw you out."

" _Excuse_ me? Who the hell do you think you are?" he demands, gaping at Eliot. "I'm not moving just because you're feeling a bit uppity, dickless."

The light bulbs in the fixture above the bar shatter in a shower of sparks and glass. A hush falls over the room. " _What_ did you just call me?" Eliot hisses, low and dangerous.

It seems like the alpha's finally realizing he's messed up. Still, he doesn't back down. "I didn't say anything that isn't true," he sneers. 

The alpha goes flying backwards until he crashes into the wall behind him and slumps to the floor. "Say it again," Eliot dares him.

He picks himself up, matches Eliot glare for glare. "Fuck you," he spits. "Acting all high and mighty just because you run a good party. Better enjoy your fucking freedom while you can, before someone knots you up."

Eliot doesn't hesitate. He swipes his hand through the air, the gesture almost dismissive, and a harsh scratch appears across the alpha's face, deep enough that it takes a couple of seconds to bleed.

The alpha doesn't react for a moment, and then his expression morphs into a furious snarl. He takes a step forward - 

Only to be met with Margo's ice-cold hand clamping around his bicep. "I think it's time for you to go," she says, low and dangerous. "You should probably go take care of that nasty scratch you got."

"I don't fucking - " he starts, glancing back up at Eliot. The look in his eyes promises retribution, until it suddenly turns pained. "Ow, _fuck,_ let go of me, you bitch!"

There's frost spreading from Margo's hand up his arm. "No, I think you need an escort to the door," she says, yanking hard enough to pull him off-balance. "Since you hit your head pretty hard. Get the fuck out, and if I ever catch a hint of you near the Cottage again, I'll make sure you end up in the infirmary."

The alpha starts to say something else, still all but vibrating with rage, but Todd opens the door and Margo shoves him through before he can speak. 

Todd slams and locks the door as soon as the alpha is clear, and when the crowd of onlookers turn back to the bar, Eliot is nowhere to be seen. Margo catches sight of Quentin's back vanishing up the stairs. She hesitates for a moment - then sighs, grits her teeth, and starts working damage control. 

Quentin is only a moment behind Eliot when Eliot’s door shuts, a brief flash indicating the wards have locked tight behind it. He pauses, takes a moment to collect himself, and to give Eliot a chance to do the same, before he approaches the door and knocks, just loud enough to be heard. "El?"

"Go away, Quentin!"

Quentin hesitates, but doesn't leave yet. "I just - Things got pretty intense back there, El," he says, concern clear in his tone. "I don't - I'm just worried about you."

"You don't need to worry about me," Eliot tells him. "As I've just proven, I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

"I know you are, El, but you're my friend," Quentin reminds him. "I worry about my friends, especially when they were just dealing with a douchebag like that."

"He was just saying what everyone else has been thinking."

"No, he was saying some bigoted shit," Quentin counters. "And if anyone else was thinking it, then they're assholes, too."

There's a heavy sigh, and then the wards around Eliot's room shimmer before the door swings open. "Get in here before I change my mind."

Quentin doesn't hesitate, sliding into Eliot's room before he speaks again. "I mean it," he says. "Anyone who thinks the same as that fucker is a bigoted asshole and deserves to get their ass kicked."

Eliot has clearly been pacing in front of his bed, and he barely glances at Quentin before continuing. "Well, I've got that in hand, obviously," he says, but the words are bitter. "Fuck, I can't believe I lost control like that."

"He was pushing every button," Quentin points out. "Even the ones he didn't know you have. Yeah, you lost control a little, but he would've ended up hurt somehow, because if the Cottage hadn't been so crowded, Margo would've gotten there sooner."

"This is why I didn't want anyone to know," Eliot spits. "I've been spoken to like that my whole life. I swore I'd never tolerate it again."

Quentin moves closer, though he doesn't make any move to try to halt Eliot's pacing. "You don't have to. And you didn't today," he says. "Just because someone's being an ass doesn't mean you have to tolerate their behavior. You can shut them down."

"I shouldn't have to even hear it, though," Eliot bites out. "What happened back there was nothing. I could have done much worse to him. I _have done_ much worse to others."

Quentin pauses. "What do you mean?"

Eliot turns to look at him then, a challenge in his eyes. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Quentin doesn't hesitate. "It's important to you, and your story," he says. "I want to know. I want to know _you._ "

"Fine," Eliot says. His bedside drawer opens and a single cigarette floats into Eliot's waiting hand; he lights it, takes a long drag, and blows out the smoke before he goes on. "I killed someone."

Quentin's eyes widen. "When? What happened?"

Eliot smokes some more, choosing his words or maybe just convincing himself to say them. "I was fourteen," he says. "His name was Logan Kinnear. He was this..." He smiles. "He beat me up. And when I presented as an omega, it only got worse. He used to call me a. A fucking baby factory. Told me I was just gagging for a knot and that I'd be useless until I got knocked up. And then one day, I was walking down the street, eating a candy bar because by that point I ate my feelings at a professional level, and there was this bus coming. I barely thought the thought."

Quentin puts the pieces together. "Telekinesis," he breathes. 

Eliot inclines his head. "I knew it was me straight away. My nose literally started bleeding. Logan died instantly, and I ruined my favourite button down."

Quentin doesn't say anything for a moment, marshaling his thoughts. "I won't say he deserved to die," he finally tells Eliot. "But he was an asshole, same as anyone else who spouts that shit, and he was a bully on top of it. You had a right to stand up for yourself, and protect yourself."

"This is what happens when I'm pushed," Eliot says. The hand holding his cigarette is shaking. "I hurt people."

Quentin steps closer, reaching out to touch Eliot's forearm. "You were pushed to the extreme," he points out. "With Logan, and with that asshole tonight. Hell, even _I'd_ have probably tried to hurt someone if I was pushed like that. You're human, El."

Eliot tenses at the touch, but almost a second later he relaxes, drained. "I'm not a good person, Q," he says, very quietly.

"I think you're good enough," Quentin says, equally quiet and completely sincere. 

Eliot closes his eyes, and when he opens them again his eyelashes are wet. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't want to go back down there."

"Well, I'm not going to make you," Quentin says with a small smile. "You want to hang out up here?"

"I want a drink," Eliot says with a sigh. "But since that is no longer an option, I think I need to go to bed."

Quentin's expression is sympathetic. "Want me to go tell Margo? To either leave you be or come up and keep you company, whichever you need."

Eliot gives him a tired smile. "I'd rather be alone," he says. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me," Quentin assures him, returning Eliot's smile. "Get some rest, El. I'll let Margo know to leave you alone tonight."

* * *

Thankfully, since most of campus was at the party, everyone knows exactly why the alpha got thrown out, and no one dares to be publicly supportive of him, which Quentin will count as a win. Regardless, most of the students clear out for the winter break, and Julia moves in with Quentin for the week they'll be spending on campus before they go visit their own family. Penny moves in with Kady, and in the days leading up to Christmas, Julia spends more nights in their room than she does in Quentin's - not that he's complaining, really. He's happy for her, even if Penny is still a dick to him.

Eliot, Margo, and Alice are the only other Physical kids in the Cottage, so their group gets to enjoy having the entire place to themselves. They take advantage of it on Christmas day to organize a party, kicked off with presents in the morning. Julia found Quentin a rare edition of the first Fillory book, and he found her - with Alice's help, while searching for Alice's own gift of a book written by phosphomancers _for_ phosphomancers - a rare book on magical Circumstances. It goes more in-depth than any other book available to the first years, and Quentin can't help but smile at the way Julia's face lights up. 

His smile turns nervous, however, when he turns to Eliot, his present held out. "It's not much," he says, almost apologetic, "but I thought you might like it."

Eliot gives him a quizzical smile in return, turning the parcel over in his hands without unwrapping it, testing the weight and the feel of it. "Another book," he says, his eyebrows raised, but his eyes kind. "Quentin, you know I can't read."

"I made sure to get one with lots of pictures," Quentin teases. 

"Oh, excellent," Eliot says, pleased, and rips into the paper. He makes short work of the wrapping and produces, as expected, a book - a cookery book, which he quickly realises details modern twists on recipes that are hundreds of years old. Eliot's eyes widen and he opens the front cover very carefully. "Quentin. This is..."

Quentin's smile is still nervous, and he gestures to the inside of the cover. "Yeah, I know. Figured you could branch out a bit." Inside the cover, Quentin's written a brief message: _In case we ever find ourselves in that cottage in the woods._

"It's perfect," Eliot says, and gently closes the cover. "I love it. Thank you, Quentin."

"All right, enough sappy bullshit," Margo complains. "Next!"

Eliot startles, and looks away from Quentin only long enough to produce a small gift of his own, small and square, and offer it to him. "My turn."

Margo rolls her eyes. "Oh, Jesus."

Quentin takes the package with a curious look, opening it quickly and carefully. He frowns at the little velvet box - and then blinks, eyes widening, as he takes in the ring inside. "That - Wow. It's gorgeous, El, but... You know I don't wear jewelry, not like you do, you overgrown peacock."

Eliot gives him a fond smile. "It's enchanted," he says. "It should help your anxiety."

Quentin blinks again, looking at the ring with a more critical eye. "Really?"

"It's not going to cure it," Eliot says, regretful, "but it'll help."

Quentin takes the ring out, slipping it over his right index finger. He rubs his thumb over the polished metal, smiling at the feel. "Well. Thank you," he says, glancing back up at Eliot. "This is really thoughtful."

"Oh, quit it before I puke," Margo bites out, but for once she has a smile for Quentin. "My turn!"

The evening is a quiet one, but it's nice. Eliot cooks up a storm, and they all gather around the fire in the cottage after dinner, passing wine around and exchanging stories and laughter. They don't even get too drunk. It's a blessing for Eliot, who is starting to think that maybe he doesn't _need_ a drink to have a good time. Still, the night can't last forever, and they all turn in a little before one.

Eliot stays downstairs longer than the others to tidy up, but he isn't surprised when he finally heads for the stairs to find Quentin waiting for him. "Hey," Eliot says softly. "You're leaving tomorrow."

"Yeah," Quentin says, nodding. "First thing in the morning. Gonna try to get to Jersey as early as we can."

Eliot smiles. "I'll say goodbye now then," he says. "No way I'm getting up that early to see you off."

Quentin laughs quietly. "Of course not," he says. "Can't interrupt your beauty sleep, right?"

"Not that I need it," Eliot teases. "I'm terrible with goodbyes, so I'm hoping you'll just settle for a hug and a forehead kiss."

Quentin grins. "Get over here," he says, fond, as he takes a step forward and opens his arms expectantly. 

Eliot goes willingly, and wraps Quentin up in his arms, drawing him close so that he can press the promised kiss to his forehead. It's softer than he meant it, lingers for longer, and he's grateful for the dim lighting when they pull apart, because he's sure that his expression is more tender than it has any right to be. "Merry Christmas, Quentin," he murmurs. "Don't have so much fun that you forget to come back."

"I'd miss you too much if I didn't come back," Quentin says, his expression open, honest. "I don't do friends for just a semester; you're stuck with me now, Waugh."

"I'd better be," Eliot says, but he's smiling. "Most things in life aren't worth caring about, but you..."

"I care about you, too," Quentin reassures him. "I'll probably be back in time for the New Year's party I'm sure you and Margo are planning."

Eliot flashes him a sharp grin. "Oh, it's going to be incredible."

* * *

Christmas is a quiet affair in the Coldwater household; Ted and Quentin exchange gifts on Christmas morning, go to the Wickers' to pig out for Christmas lunch, and then go home to pass out in socially-exhausted food comas. They spend the next week catching up and splurging on some takeaway dinners, as well as binging all of the movies that they've been waiting to watch together. 

It's pretty much perfect, and Quentin is almost sad when Julia arrives the night before New Year's Eve; she's spending the night with Quentin, just like old times, before they head back to Brakebills the next day. 

When it comes time to pack up, Julia isn't much help; she mostly just sits on Quentin's bed and chatters away while Quentin does the actual work. "You know," Quentin finally says, vaguely annoyed, "if you'd help, we could get back to campus sooner, and then _you_ could get back to sucking face with Kady and Penny."

Julia sticks her tongue out at him. "Like you're not just as desperate to get back to Eliot."

Quentin can't help the way he flushes. "Just because I'm worried about him," he says, completely unconvincing. 

"Q, we all know you're a bleeding heart, but this is more than that."

"He's my friend, he's had a rough semester," Quentin says. "It's - Even if it's more for _me,_ that's what's important."

Julia's expression softens. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're alone in that," she says. "I think it's more for him, too."

Quentin knows he probably sounds pathetically hopeful when he asks, "You really think so?"

"He worships you, Quentin," Julia says. "He has since you met him."

"Sounds like a hell of a guy," Ted says from the doorway. They both start.

"Dad!" Quentin yelps. "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," Ted says, grinning. "You didn't tell me there was a _boy_."

Quentin flushes. "Because there isn't - not like. Officially? But he... Eliot is. He’s really great, and I really like him, but - He had a really bad relationship and breakup last semester. I just think it's more important to be his friend right now."

"And that's really decent of you," Julia tells him. "But Ted, you should see the way this guy looks at him. He's still messed up from what happened, sure, but you're the furthest thing from that asshole, and Eliot knows it. He can't be sad forever. He's _ready_."

Quentin sighs. "I just - You know he's my best friend next to you. I don't want to risk that."

"If he's as good a friend as all that," Ted says, "you won't lose him even if he turns you down."

"I just - " Quentin worries his lower lip for a moment. "He's _really_ important to me, and he's amazing, and I just... can't see any reason why he'd say yes," he blurts. "To any alpha, after what Mike did to him last semester."

"But you're _not_ just any alpha!" Julia cries. "You're different from-- from all of us! He feels safe around you, it's obvious."

"Feeling safe around me isn't the same thing as wanting to be courted by me," Quentin points out. 

"You won't know until you ask," Ted counters.

Quentin groans. "But asking is - It terrifies me, and not just because of Margo. Honestly she doesn't scare me as much as Eliot does."

Julia's frustration is clearly mounting, but Ted steps in before she can vent it. "No one can tell you what to do," he says. "But you've barely shut up about this guy all break, and if nothing else it sounds like he's a really good friend. If you think you could make each other happy, don't you deserve that? Doesn't he?"

Quentin mulls that over for a moment. Then, he takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says. "We do."

"Then follow your instincts," Ted tells him. "For once in your life, don't let your head rule your heart. We both know you can be your own worst enemy."

Quentin's smile is wry. "Yeah, I can be," he says. "Okay. I'll - figure out a way to bring it up with him. Somehow."

Ted smiles. "I believe in you, kid."

* * *

"There you are!" Eliot cries, the minute Quentin walks through the door, Julia close behind him. "You're late! And you're hardly dressed to party, but you'll do. There are trays of nibbles floating around somewhere, and drinks, and music. Drop your shit and pay me attention."

"It's nice to see you, too, El," Quentin laughs, ignoring the significant look Julia slants at him. "I'm not leaving my stuff here in front of the door; let me drop it off in my room and then I'll be right back, okay?"

"Are you getting changed?" Eliot asks, his eyes narrowed.

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to say I can't go upstairs if I _don't_ get changed?"

Eliot pulls a face like Quentin is being ridiculous. "Of course not," he says. "I just don't want you to take forever. You're perfect just as you are."

Quentin shakes his head, his smile fond. "I'll be back in a minute," he says, "but can I hug you before I head up? I did miss you, God knows why."

"Of course you can hug me," Eliot says, laughing, as he opens his arms.

Quentin grins, stepping forward so he can wrap his arms around Eliot for a tight hug. "I'll unpack tomorrow," he promises. "Just give me a moment and I'll be back down."

Eliot hugs back just as tight. "You'd better," he says. "I missed you, too."

Quentin lingers for another moment before he finally releases Eliot, stepping back. "Any chance there'll be a drink waiting for me when I get back down?"

"Every chance," Eliot assures him. He finally looks to Julia then, and offers her a smile. "Lovely to see you, as always. I'll whip you up something, too."

Julia laughs and waves a hand. "Save your smalltalk for someone who cares, Waugh."

Eliot raises his eyebrows. "So you don't want a drink?"

"Oh, I'll take the drink," Julia assures him. "I just think your efforts are best spent elsewhere."

Quentin rolls his eyes and tugs her away with a last smile for Eliot, who watches them head up the stairs. When he turns back to the bar, Margo is waiting for him with an empty glass and an expectant, if vaguely disgusted, look. "Maybe now your favorite nerd is back, you'll quit moping," she snips. "Honestly it's been downright depressing the past week."

"Don't be so dramatic," Eliot says, rolling his eyes, as he makes his way over to her. He takes her glass but sets it aside in favour of pulling two new ones from the shelf.

Margo raises an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Making Quentin and Julia a drink," Eliot says. He hesitates, and then reaches for a third glass. "Possibly also myself."

The second eyebrow joins the first. "Yourself? You've already had a drink tonight."

"And?"

"You just finished it," Margo points out. "What happened to pacing yourself?"

"Q walked through the door," Eliot says. "That's what happened."

Margo sighs. "Just be careful, honey. I know you've missed him, but don't go throwing away all your progress because he's back and you want to be impulsive."

Eliot glares at her. "I'm not an alcoholic, Bambi," he says. "I can have a few drinks that aren’t virgin."

"You know I worry, _and_ Lipson said to watch the alcohol intake now that she's upping your suppressant dosage," Margo reminds him. 

"I can handle my own shit, Margo," Eliot tells her. "I know my limits, and I’ll make sure to mix myself more virgin drinks. Now either stop killing my buzz or go away."

Margo rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. "Don't do anything too stupid tonight, El. Or I'll do a lot worse than 'kill your buzz.'"

"Our definitions of 'stupid' are quite different," Eliot says. "Go. Have fun. I'm _fine_."

Margo leaves with a wave, and Eliot is left alone to mix drinks for several long moments. A movement at the side of the bar catches his attention, and he glances over to see Quentin moving towards his usual seat - but he's changed clothes. Behind him, Julia looks smug, but Eliot barely notices her as he takes in Quentin's new outfit. It's nothing scandalous, nothing outrageous, but... This sweater fits his shoulders well, shows them off along with the taper to his waist. He's wearing a pair of jeans that hug his ass now, and Julia must have wrestled him into sitting still for longer than a minute, because his hair looks soft, just-brushed and wavy. Quentin notices Eliot looking, there's no way he couldn't, and he flushes prettily. "Julia insisted I should wear something a little more fitting if I'm going to be sociable," he explains. 

"You look great," Eliot tells him honestly. "You scrub up well, Coldwater."

"Yeah, yeah," Quentin says, cheeks still red as he settles into his seat. "Thanks, El."

Eliot waves him off and hands him a creamy yellow drink. "I'm starting you off easy with a snowball. Very festive. Now tell me all about your break."

Quentin picks up the drink, taking a sip before he answers. "That's really good. Um, well. Not a lot happened? It was pretty quiet, except when we went over to see Julia's family Christmas Day, that was pretty crazy."

"Family drama?" Eliot guesses.

"Just.... the chaos of a huge family crammed into one house," Quentin laughs. "Her family's good, for the most part - the usual racist, homophobic assholes were banned from holidays a while ago. The most drama that happens is over whose recipe was used for the mashed potatoes."

Eliot laughs. "Sounds like a great time," he says, and Quentin can't tell if he's being serious or not. "You didn't miss anything around here, anyway. It's been very boring."

"Really, with you and Margo here? I find that hard to believe," Quentin laughs. 

"Last year we portalled to the Maldives and spent the whole week on a beach," Eliot admits. He shrugs. "But I wasn't feeling it this year."

Quentin tilts his head. "Any reason?" he asks lightly, like the answer doesn't really matter. 

Eliot smiles. "I guess I just felt like a white Christmas."

Chuckling, Quentin lifts his glass in a mock toast. He and Eliot pass the last two hours to midnight amicably at the bar, chatting about everything and nothing. They both continue to drink - after Eliot gives him the same reassurance that he gave Margo about pacing himself - and by the time the just-before-midnight rush to the bar is over, Quentin's well and truly tipsy. Eliot has had just as much to drink, and he's loose-limbed in the way that means he's just as far gone as Quentin, maybe even a little more, if he had some drinks before Quentin got back. 

Once the demanding crowd has been served, there's two minutes left to midnight. Eliot comes out from behind the bar, settling onto the stool next to Quentin's. Quentin shifts until their knees touch, and he lifts his latest drink - a Blue Thing - to take a sip for liquid courage before asking, "So, any resolutions planned for the new year?"

Eliot's smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "No more asshole alphas," he says. "And I want to be braver."

The noise from the rest of the party ramps up, and Quentin leans in, the better to hear and be heard. "'Braver'?" he asks. 

All around them people are counting down to midnight. Eliot leans in closer, too. His gaze is intense, but Quentin can't look away. "I need to start learning from you," he says - and then Quentin is being kissed.

Quentin makes a shocked noise, muffled by the kiss and unheard as the cheer for the turning of the year goes up. He kisses back, half out of instinct, half out of a desire to just kiss Eliot, and when the kiss breaks, he looks at Eliot with wide eyes. "El?"

"Q," Eliot rasps. His eyes are glazed, unfocused; his mouth is red. "Q." He leans in again.

Quentin doesn't stop the second kiss - but he stops the third, despite the voice in his head that sounds like Julia calling him an idiot. "El, I - " He pauses, swallows, and makes himself ask, "How much did you have to drink before I got back?"

"Does it matter?" Eliot asks. "Just kiss me again."

God, it's tempting - but Quentin shakes his head, more as an attempt to clear it than anything. "No, it - it does matter. El, I don't want..." He pauses, struggling to find the right words; he'd thought he'd have more _time_ to figure out what he was going to say, hadn't dared dream that El would be the one to kiss him. 

But Eliot's hands are already dropping away from where they've landed on Quentin's shoulders, and he's leaning out of Quentin's space, his expression shuttered, the light in his eyes snuffed out. "Oh," he says. "God. I've made a horrible mistake."

Quentin freezes, heart in his throat. "You - What?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Eliot says faintly. "Quentin, I'm... so sorry. I have no excuse. I'm clearly out of my goddamn mind."

"Wait, Eliot, I don't mean - You don't need to _apologize_ \- "

"I do," Eliot says, desperate. "Of course you don't want that, and I certainly don't. I just. God. I need to go."

"Okay," Quentin says, switching tack. "It's fine, El. Do you want me to get Margo?"

"No," Eliot says, and gets unsteadily to his feet. "Please, just forget all about this."

Quentin scrambles to his feet, looking at Eliot in alarm. "Wait, Eliot - "

But Eliot holds up a hand. "Please," he says. "I can't do this right now, Q. I'm sorry."

All Quentin can do is watch as Eliot all but runs around the bar and up the stairs. 

* * *

They still have a little over a week left of Christmas break, but Eliot doesn't see Quentin for most of it. He hides out in his room, ignoring even Margo, and licks his wounds alone. At least he knows that his wards are solid after Mike; there's no way the meagre dosage of suppressants Lipson has limited him to are hiding the scent of his devastation. Margo, bless her, only calls him pathetic twice through the locked door before she leaves him alone to wallow.

But he can't hide out forever. This latest humiliation has the potential to be just as damaging to his reputation as Mike was, and besides, in his most rational moments he can admit to himself that he doesn't want Quentin to feel _guilty_. It's not his fault that he _doesn't want_ ; that he could never want--

So he shows his face on the dawn of the last weekend before classes start. There's going to be another party tonight, and of course Eliot is expected to host. He starts early, trying to pace himself, and heads down to the kitchen a little before nine to make himself some toast, perhaps a soothing cup of camomile. They're still in the midst of their enchanted winter, and it's early enough on the last Friday of break that he expects everyone to still be in bed - so of course Quentin walks in right as he's pouring boiling water into a dainty china cup.

Quentin pauses, clearly just as startled to see Eliot - and then he offers Eliot a tentative smile. "Hey," he says, a little uncertain but clearly trying to act like there's nothing odd between them. "Kinda early for you, isn't it?"

"The early bird gets the worm," Eliot quips. He sets the kettle down and stirs his tea for lack of anything else to do. The way the teabag swirls around the cup is fascinating. "I wanted to get a head start on tonight's party. Most everyone is back from break now. It won't be New Year-levels of fabulous, but it needs to be good."

Quentin nods, moving towards the fridge to pull out a jar of peach preserves. "Yeah, obviously; the Cottage has a reputation to uphold," Quentin jokes, but it falls a bit flat. 

"Indeed," Eliot says. He throws out the teabag and sets his teaspoon aside, and circles his hand over the cup until it's cooled to his satisfaction. "How come you're up so early?"

Quentin shrugs. "Couldn't sleep," he answers. "Wondering about this next semester, you know." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, "And... worrying about you, a little. Haven't seen you all week."

 _Fuck._ Eliot needs a cigarette. "You don't need to worry about me, Q," he says, already heading for the door that leads out to the patio. "I'm fine. I'm always fine."

"El," Quentin starts, taking a step. "I _know_ you, and we've talked about this - "

"Q, please," Eliot says. He sounds as tired as he feels. "I'm trying not to make a big deal out of this. I need you to do the same, okay?"

Quentin hesitates, but after a moment he nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "But you've been avoiding everyone, even Margo."

Eliot sighs, heavy and impatient. "I'll deal with Margo."

"Okay," Quentin says again. "I'll - I'll see you later, El."

"Yeah, see you." Eliot closes the patio door behind him.

* * *

Quentin doesn't go to the party that evening. He doesn't see Eliot again until Monday, after he gets back from his classes, and their conversation is a little easier - but still awkward. Quentin practically flees as soon as he can, cursing himself. Julia isn't any help, either, when Quentin talks to her the next day; she has ideas of how to help, obviously, but none of them are suitable for Quentin and Eliot's relationship - or lack thereof. He's talking with Julia again, as a matter of fact, when Margo' hand clamps down on his arm, and Quentin yelps - he doesn't _shriek,_ thank you very much, judge-y look on Julia's face. 

" _Christ,_ Margo," he complains. "Warn a guy, Jesus."

"Oh, don't be such a cock," Margo huffs. "Come on, we need to talk."

Quentin glances at Julia, who shrugs, and sighs. "Alright. Um, lead on?"

Margo leads him into the Cottage library, and chases some unwitting second year out before slamming and locking the door. "Okay," she says. "What are you going to do about Eliot?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about I don't know what the fuck happened at New Year's, but I know it's your fault," Margo sneers. "He's miserable. You're miserable. Fix it, now."

Quentin glares at her. "It's not my fault, for your information," he spits. " _Eliot_ is the one who fucking kissed me, then immediately said it was a huge mistake, and started avoiding me. I've tried to act like everything's fine and nothing happened, _like he asked me to,_ but things keep getting weird, so he's just been avoiding me, and forgive me for not wanting to make one of my best friends uncomfortable by forcing my company on him!"

"Don't you pull that bullshit with me," Margo spits right back, furious. "I've been trying to keep you away from him all year, because I knew this would happen, but no, you have to be all over each other. I smell you every time I go near him, Coldwater, and it makes me sick. He's just setting himself up to get hurt again, and I'll be damned if I let you knock him down. I don't care whose fault it was. You _fix it_ , or you'll never see daylight again." 

Quentin grits his teeth against his first response. "Fine," he bites out. "And how the hell do you suggest I do that in a way that won't piss you off further or make him even more upset around me? Because frankly, you're scary, Margo, but I'm actually not trying to hurt him, and I'll take you being pissed over him being upset."

Margo absorbs that, and folds her arms over her chest. "Are you serious about him?" she asks. "Do you really want to be with him?"

Quentin meets her gaze head-on. "Yes."

"Then prove it to him," Margo says. "Show him how you feel. Make him believe it."

Quentin considers that for a moment, and then nods. "Okay," he says, and tries to ignore the way his heartrate triples. "Okay. I was - planning to talk to him, after we all got settled back on campus, but. I think I've got something."

"Don't make me regret this," Margo warns him. "If you fuck up again, I won't be held responsible for my actions."

* * *

Quentin doesn't get a chance to follow through on his plan for another couple of days; he meant it when he said the last thing he wants to do is make Eliot even more upset. So, he spends the days planning and ignoring Margo's increasingly unsubtle glares. His opportunity to put his plan in motion comes on Friday; the Cottage is mostly empty, but Quentin knows from Margo that Eliot doesn't have any afternoon classes on Fridays, and neither does he - but most of the rest of the Cottage inhabitants do. 

Quentin spends an hour in the kitchen, making sure he has everything _just_ right before he even _starts_ cooking. It's a simple recipe, but he's always been better at baking than he has been at actually cooking. Even if his baking skills aren't _that_ great, either. Still, this is just stew, it can't go but so wrong, as long as he fully cooks the lamb he'd splurged on. He takes his time with that bit, preheating the oven first before prepping the lamb. He puts it into a Dutch oven he'd borrowed from his dad for this, popping it into the oven when it beeps at him. He makes certain to give each side of the lamb an equal amount of time to brown before he pulls it out of oven. He then swaps out the lamb for some of the vegetables, sticking that back into the oven. Quentin sets the lamb aside in its own bowl with a small warming charm, and takes a moment to breathe while he has the chance, and tries not to work himself into an anxious mess in the eight minutes the vegetables need before the lamb can go back in, along with the broth and rest of the vegetables. 

Miraculously, it all comes together without incident or Eliot wandering into the kitchen like he usually does whenever someone else tries to cook anything more complicated than a grilled cheese sandwich. Quentin carefully ladles a hearty serving into a large bowl, adding a couple of slices of nice bread he'd bought at a bakery - he wasn't taking a chance on fucking _that_ up; he didn't want to push his luck with making both the stew _and_ the bread - to the side of the tray he put the stew on. He almost walks out of the kitchen without a spoon, but Quentin will count that being the only near-miss as a victory. It's a little early for dinner, but afternoon classes will be over soon, so if Quentin wants to do this with any semblance of privacy, it's now or never.

He very carefully navigates the stairs with his tray, and then heads for Eliot's closed door. Unless he portaled directly out of his room, or climbed out the fucking window, he should still be in there. Quentin takes a deep breath, adjusts the tray so it’s braced against his chest and resting on one arm, and knocks. 

From inside comes a heavy sigh. "Q, I know it's you. Just let yourself in."

"My hands are a little full," Quentin calls back. _And I don’t want to invade your space if this goes to shit,_ he thinks, and then shakes his head, trying to clear the doubts. He has Eliot’s Christmas gift on - had put it on this morning, as a matter of fact - and he can feel the magic working, providing a grounding sensation like being covered in a weighted blanket, but he’s still nervous.

"Of course they are," Eliot mutters, probably not even meaning for Quentin to hear. A moment later, the door swings open by itself, revealing Eliot lounging on his bed. He sits up when he sees Quentin and the tray in his hands. "Oh. What's all this?"

Quentin lifts the tray a little, giving Eliot what he desperately hopes is not a pained smile. "Dinner. A little early, but I, uh - I didn't... Want to run the risk of someone else suffering from my shit luck in the kitchen. So I cooked this while everyone else was gone, managed not to burn myself or anything, and it's actually edible."

"And you... made extra?" Eliot guesses.

Quentin feels his cheeks heat. "No, um. Well, yes? Extra for me, I guess. I, uh, made it for you. First. Because I haven't seen you downstairs when you aren't on your way to classes, and I just wanted to - to make sure you weren't going to like. Collapse? That you were eating, I mean." As he speaks, Quentin can practically feel his anxiety spiking - but Eliot's Christmas gift to him is working, the weighted-blanket sensation it provides intensifying, the grounding pressure around his body keeping him from completely falling apart. It doesn't stop the rambling, but it's not a complete cure, after all. 

"You made this for me," Eliot repeats, his voice dull with disbelief. He finally gets to his feet and crosses the room to take the tray from Quentin. "You made... stew, for me."

"I figured it could only go so wrong?" Quentin says, watching Eliot carefully. He gives in to the urge to bite his lip, but it can only stop his rambling for a moment. "It's lamb, I, uh, splurged a little bit. I always thought this recipe was better with lamb than beef, but you can make it either way, and I didn't know if you had like. A preference? But if you don't like lamb, the chunks are big enough that you can pick them out easily."

"I love lamb," Eliot says, though he's still looking at Quentin like he has six heads. "I-- Thank you, I think."

"Yeah, of course," Quentin says, nodding far too fast. "I'm just - going to head back down to the kitchen. I need to clean up, eat something myself. I'll see you later!" Just before his nerves utterly fail him, Quentin ducks out of Eliot's room and speed-walks away. 

* * *

That's just the start of it. Eliot might be going insane. Every time he relaxes, starts to think things might be going back to normal and he and Quentin might be able to start finding their way back to their regularly scheduled programming of casual friendship, Quentin gives him another gift. More food, mostly - chocolate and little cakes and, on one memorable occasion, an entire roast chicken - but also a fancy glass serving tray, and a beautiful cocktail shaker for the bar. It's not like Eliot doesn't know what Quentin is doing. Even with all of the stammering and the terrible excuses and the hasty retreats once the gift has been given, he really isn't being subtle at all. But it's beyond confusing.

Quentin doesn't want to be with him. So why the hell is Quentin _courting_ him?

In the end, things come to a head on a Wednesday. Eliot has a particularly ridiculous paper due in the next day, and he's been killing himself trying to get it written since the weekend. He's stubbornly refusing to admit that his preoccupation with puzzling out the exact nature of the game Quentin is playing is at least partly to blame. Even Margo is steering clear of him until he pulls his head out of his ass - her words. Everyone else is steering clear of him, too, and he _knows_ , all right? Between the stress of the paper, the anxiety over Quentin and the still-keen sting of his rejection, he knows he smells miserable, and he knows that Lipson's suppressants aren't helping all that much. But what the fuck is he supposed to do about it?

Apparently, Quentin has an idea.

"Q," Eliot says, turning the bottle over in his hands. "This is... Expensive." It is. Very expensive. The kind of cologne Eliot is holding is known for its soothing, subtle scent - but it's also known for helping to cover up the wearer's own scent. Eliot opens his mouth, and he means to tell Quentin that this is too much, a lovely, thoughtful gift that he can't possibly accept, but with shame curdling in his gut at the obvious implication that his scent is bothering Quentin, what actually comes out is: "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Quentin blinks, clearly thrown, and his nervous expression turns confused, maybe a little offended. "What? I can't buy something nice to help out a friend? It's not like I've been flinging money around left and right before now, I can afford a bottle of this stuff."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Eliot bites out, fear making him aggressive. "Why are you giving me this? Why are you giving me-- all of it? What are you hoping to achieve?"

Quentin just stares at him for a moment before answering. "I... thought it was obvious?"

"Oh, we both know what it looks like," Eliot sneers. "But I don't need your pity, Coldwater. In fact, I don't need you at all."

Quentin gapes at him. " _Pity?_ " he demands, incredulous. "You seriously think I'm doing this out of fucking _pity?_ Jesus, I know I'm pretty socially inept, but I thought you were better at that sort of thing, _Waugh._ "

"Find someone else's emotions to play with," Eliot spits, like Quentin hasn't said a word. "And while you're at it, go fuck yourself."

Quentin stares at him for a long moment before his expression shutters. Eliot's never seen him go entirely.... _blank_ before, and it looks wrong on him; even his scent seems to abruptly dull. "Right. Okay. You know what? Fuck you, Eliot. I - " Quentin cuts himself off, shakes his head as he takes a step back. "Forget it." Without looking at Eliot, Quentin turns on his heel and walks away. 

* * *

Quentin gets two days to lick his wounds in relative privacy; he’s been avoiding Margo because he _really_ isn’t in the mood for another ‘I told you so.’ Julia leaves him be with a sympathetic hug, and when Quentin finally emerges from his self-imposed isolation Friday night, things go… okay. He avoids the bar at the party, sticks to the kitchen and even ventures out with Alice to the patio, the two of them sitting close together and chatting, catching up while they share a warming spell.

The next night doesn’t go as smoothly. Quentin takes what courage he can find and approaches the bar, intent on saying hello to Eliot, getting a drink, and then leaving again - but almost immediately, that plan goes off the rails. Eliot’s already clearly been drinking, and while Quentin doesn’t _say_ anything, apparently his face gives away his concern. Eliot snaps at him, Quentin tries to defend himself, but it ends with Quentin stalking away from the bar without a drink and heading back upstairs, the churning in his gut making him feel sick. He and Eliot have _never_ fought like that, never been at each other’s throats, and he doesn’t like it. He knows that all friendships have their ups and downs, but…

Well, Quentin can’t help but worry that maybe he’s set them on a permanent ‘down,’ pushing too hard and too fast.

That worry only gets worse when, a week after Eliot told Quentin to get fucked, Eliot seeks him out. Quentin’s on the couch in the main room, taking advantage of the nearly-deserted state of the Cottage to spread his things out on the coffee table and do some revision. He looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, heart jumping into his throat, hopeful, when he sees Eliot - only to immediately sink through the floor when he spies the bottle in Eliot’s hand. The twisting anxiety in his stomach makes him jittery, and before he can stop himself, he’s speaking. “What do you want, Eliot?”

Eliot's jaw clenches. "I want to return this," he says.

It takes a second to get his lungs to cooperate. "Why?"

"I just can't accept something like this from you," Eliot says. "It's too much."

Quentin grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. "I won't take it back," he says, doing his best to ignore the ache in his chest. "Just keep it, Eliot. I don't have any reason to use it."

"Oh, but I do," Eliot snipes.

"I got it _for you,_ " Quentin bites out. "If you try to give it back, it's just going to go to waste. Just keep it, Eliot. You made yourself clear, you don't need to do this."

"Except that I feel like I do," Eliot says. "Do you know how uncomfortable you've made me?"

Quentin shuts the book in his lap with a _snap,_ shoving himself to his feet. "Yeah, Eliot, I do," he says harshly, gathering his things with a clumsy tut and stuffing them into his bag. "Like I said, you made yourself _perfectly_ fucking clear. Message received loud and clear, no confusion to be had." He doesn't look at Eliot as he tosses the strap of his bag over his head, rounding the couch on the far side. "Guess I should just be thankful you tried to do it now, huh? No one around to see you - " He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath, two, and trying to get himself under control. "I'm going to go spend the night with Julia. Might be best all around."

Eliot just sighs. "Q, stop being a child and just take the fucking cologne."

Quentin's head snaps up then, and he glares at Eliot. "You think I'm being fucking _childish?_ " he demands. "That's - That's great. Fucking fantastic. Thanks for that, Eliot. Let me be perfectly clear: I'm not being _childish,_ and I'm not taking that damn bottle back. I bought it for you because I figured you could use it, even as just a friendly gift. If you really don't want it, then fucking throw it away. But _don't_ go through this whole - this song and dance, because it's really not necessary, and I don't want it. And frankly, I don't want to talk to you if you're just going to keep pulling this shit. So for right now, I'm not taking the goddamn bottle, and I'm not staying here. I'm going to go spend the night with Jules, and maybe when I get back we can figure out how to put this whole thing behind us without making each other even more fucking miserable before Margo murders us in our sleep." Trying desperately to ignore the sting behind his eyes, to cling to the offended, outraged part of him that’s almost overshadowed by the heartbroken alpha, Quentin makes a beeline for the door. 

Eliot doesn't move or say anything to stop him. He just watches him go.

* * *

Margo is seriously contemplating murder. Or possibly suicide, she hasn't decided yet. 

Honestly, she knew Quentin was trouble from the moment Eliot came back from leading him to the entrance exam; she'd never seen that sort of look in his eyes before. She'd thought, _maybe,_ that Quentin might be okay after all, when he told her that he cared more about whether Eliot was upset than whether she was pissed at him. That turned out to be a fucking lie, though, obviously, since all of his little gifts did nothing but make Eliot confused and, in the end, more upset than ever. Their row by the bar after Eliot told him to get lost proved that; she's never seen him so upset, so angry and frustrated and _hurt,_ as she had after Quentin had stormed back upstairs. 

Then Quentin did a runner, spent the night in the Knowledge dorms, and that same night Eliot started acting... odd. And he hasn't gotten any better. He's treating Quentin only barely better than he usually treats Todd - insofar as he's completely ignoring Quentin. Quentin, to his credit, doesn't seem to want to push things anymore, to give them a chance to catch their breath. 

Except... Well, Margo isn't blind, or stupid, and she still has her sense of smell. Eliot's behavior has gotten weirder, and his scent has dulled, more _blank_ than it ever was when he was on his suppressants at the beginning of the year. 

Margo sips her drink, watching Eliot from her armchair, ignoring the party for a moment. She watches as Quentin comes out of the library with Quinn, walks past the bar, and glances up at Eliot. Even at this distance, it's sickening, the pathetically lost look on his face. But Eliot doesn't react at all; his gaze passes over Quentin and Alice like they aren't even there, and he turns to the next person at the bar without even a _nod_ for either of them. Margo watches Quentin visibly deflate, turn to Quinn, and shrug. Quinn frowns, mouth forming words Margo can't hear, and they move on. 

Polishing off the last of her drink, Margo gets to her feet and moves towards the bar. She settles into what used to be Quentin's usual seat, and waits for Eliot to notice her before she nods towards the crowd. "Nice crowd tonight," she says, pitching her voice just loud enough to be heard over the noise. "You haven't left the bar all night."

"I'm bartending," Eliot says simply. "That means I have to be at the bar."

"Yeah, but you haven't been socializing," Margo points out. "I don't think I've seen a genuine smile on your face all night."

Eliot shrugs. "I'm fine," he says. "I've just been focused on the drinks."

Well, that's clearly not a _lie,_ but... "It's eased up now, come sit with me," Margo says coaxingly. "I haven't spent time with my best bitch in days, I'm feeling neglected."

Eliot sighs, but he sets the cloth he's been wiping the bar with and turns to face her. "Very well," he says. He sounds resigned.

Margo raises an eyebrow. "Or you could not, if it's such a chore."

"It isn't," Eliot tells her. "I'm just... I don't know. Tired, I guess."

Margo studies him for a moment; there is a certain tightness around his eyes. She nods. "Alright. Well, come sit with me, take a break, and then go get some sleep."

Eliot relents. "Sure."

* * *

Eliot spends the rest of the party with his head in Margo's lap; he even dozes off for a little bit, before Margo wakes him up and shoos him off to bed. She keeps a close eye on him over the next few days - alright, she _hovers_ over him, but she's _worried,_ damn it. Even though he's sleeping better, he's still like a fucking zombie, and Margo can't figure out why. 

She feels a little guilty for it, but on a day she knows she has class closer to the Cottage than he does, she practically bolts back. His wards let her into his room easily, and she starts rifling through his things quickly. She's not entirely sure what she's looking for - until she finds it. 

Eliot's suppressant bottle is in his nightstand. He just got a refill from Lipson two weeks ago, and according to her instructions, he should have enough pills to last another two weeks, taking two a day. The only problem is that there's only two pills left. The implications don't escape her, and when Eliot enters the room not five minutes later, Margo's waiting for him, pill bottle in hand. "Eliot," she says, struggling to keep her tone even. "Do you want to tell me why you've gone through this twice as fast as you should have?"

Eliot doesn't look remotely caught, even though he most certainly is. "I've been doubling up on the dosage."

Margo swallows back the first thing that tries to come out of her mouth; getting angry won't have any effect on him, and won't do anything but frustrate her. "Right. That's why you've been walking around like some kind of fucking robot, then. I can't let you keep doing this, El."

"Why not?"

"Because you're going to seriously fuck yourself up if you keep doing this," Margo says, tucking the bottle into a pocket and stepping forward. "We need to go see Lipson."

Eliot frowns. "But this is a lot nicer than before," he says. "I don't feel... anything."

"Baby, that's not nice, that's scary," Margo says, as gently as she can manage. "You aren't _you,_ Eliot. You're a robot, walking and talking but not living."

"Is that not better than the alternative?" Eliot asks glumly. "You saw how I was. And I know you thought it was pathetic."

"I'd rather have you pathetic than fucking _dead,_ " Margo spits. "Because that's how you'll end up if you stay on this dosage! At least you have a chance at coming back from being torn up over Coldwater; you can't come back from the dead."

"Watch me," Eliot mutters, but he sighs and gestures to the door. "Fine. Let's go."

Margo links her arm through his, and leads the way. 

* * *

Lipson is, predictably, furious with Eliot. She yells at him about screwing with her treatment plan and endangering his health for a solid twenty minutes, and then realises that Eliot is too drugged up to give a shit and waits until he's detoxed under her supervision for twenty-four hours before trying again. Eliot, his hormones fucked six ways from Sunday thanks to the sudden lack of suppressants in his system, cries the whole time.

She takes pity on him eventually and agrees to let him go on a very low dose, just to level him out, but insists that she will be the one to administer it; he has to go to the infirmary every day to get his pills from her directly. He agrees, miserable, and is released into Margo's custody later that afternoon. By some miracle Margo doesn't seem particularly inclined to lecture him or give him shit for the weepy, clingy mess he has become; she just puts him to bed and looks after him while he slowly returns to the land of the living.

The next few days are a blur. He's very much walking wounded; he feels bruised, exhausted, _fragile_. Pathetic. But human again. He's finally finding his feet by the time the latest Brakebills Alumni event rolls around. The campus is flooded with people, successful graduates here to give advice to students and even, in some cases, selecting one to mentor. Unlike last year Eliot is in no shape to compete for a mentor, so he's happy to help Margo attract the eye of the ever-fabulous Genji, who it just so happens is Alice's aunt.

'Help' might be a little generous - mostly he's following her around, letting her direct him where she needs him and making sure she stays positive. It's not difficult. Margo is very confident.

It's enough to keep him busy, but not quite enough to keep his thoughts from wandering. He hasn't seen Quentin in days, partly because Eliot has been holed up in his room again and partly because he's fairly sure Quentin hasn't been spending that much time in the Cottage - but he thought for sure he'd see him today. Maybe he's busy, though. Maybe he's acting as a shadow for Julia the same way that Eliot is acting as a shadow for Margo, or maybe he's off chatting up potential mentors for himself. Maybe he's not even on campus, or maybe he's hiding in his room away from all the noise and the people. Maybe he's just actively avoiding Eliot; maybe he's been right under Eliot's nose this whole time and some spell or Alice's Phosphoromancy is keeping him invisible to Eliot's eye.

Maybe the kiss Margo just pressed to Eliot's cheek meant that she was going off to schmooze Genji herself, and maybe that means Eliot is now alone in a sea of people he doesn't know and doesn't care to. Maybe none of that matters, because Mike McCormick just walked into the room and immediately found Eliot in the crowd.

Maybe he's making a beeline for him, and Eliot has nowhere to go.

Mike catches up to him before Eliot can form an escape plan; he's all smiles, smooth and charismatic, charming the way he was when Eliot met him in the library that first day. "Eliot," he says, voice warm. "It's good to see you."

Eliot takes a moment to breathe in and out as slowly and evenly as he can. "I wish I could say the same," he says, and he's surprised by how calm he sounds. "What are you doing here?"

"I was invited to come talk about Magicians in politics," Mike says, proud. "I work under the mayor of New York City, you know."

"I remember," Eliot says, his mouth twisting. "I also remember you getting thrown out of here on your ass, and that was before Margo found out what you'd been doing to me the whole time we were together."

Mike raises an eyebrow. "Are you _still_ mad about that? I did you a favor! Clearly you're not hiding yourself, anymore."

"Because you didn't give me a choice," Eliot snaps. His voice shakes. "What would have happened if I'd gone into heat while we were still together? Would you have knocked me up while I was out of my mind?"

Mike rolls his eyes. "Now that's just ridiculous. I would've helped you through it, and then we could've talked about it later."

"Talked about what?" Eliot asks, desperate. "I told you things I've never told anyone before - including that I'm not interested in-- in heats and pregnancy and everything you tried to force on me."

Mike scoffed. "Oh, come on, Eliot. You had to know you'd need to stop deluding yourself, that you could ever be anything but an omega. Not many alphas would've been willing to overlook this - _wild period_ like I was."

"Stop it," Eliot says, and he hates how small his voice sounds now. "Wild period? This is my _life_. You made me feel like you accepted me, but the whole time you were just-- You fucking--" He cuts himself off, breathing hard, and blinks against the stinging in his eyes. His vision clears a moment later just in time for him to spot Quentin coming up behind Mike, and his heart seizes in his chest. _Not now_ , he thinks desperately, but it's too late.

Mike has a pitying expression on his face - which turns quizzical when Quentin taps him on the shoulder. He turns, recognition flashing across his expression - 

And Quentin hauls back and punches him in the jaw, hard enough to knock Mike sprawling. 

Quentin clearly didn't make the fist correctly; he's shaking out his hand, but his gaze never leaves Mike, never turns less furious. "What the _fuck_ were you thinking?" he demands. 

"I was invited - "

"I meant coming after Eliot, you absolute dickweasel. You've already done enough to him, and frankly the only reason you aren't _dead_ is because Margo is on the other side of the room," Quentin snarls. "You lost any fucking right you had to talk to Eliot the moment you started manipulating him, and I wish I'd punched you sooner."

Mike finally gets back to his feet, matching Quentin glare-for-glare. "And what right do you have to defend him?" he says hotly. "Eliot can defend himself."

"He shouldn't have to against an abusive alpha - that's what friends are for," Quentin shoots back. "And speaking of, you should probably leave before the rest of Eliot's friends get here. None of us think very highly of you, McCormick."

Sure enough, Alice and Margo are pushing through the crowd of students, murder writ clear on Margo's face, and behind Alice, Eliot can just see Penny, Julia, and Kady. Mike clearly sees them, too, because he blanches, gives Quentin one last, nasty look, and then turns on his heel. 

Eliot's heart is racing, his mind spinning, and oh God, he's definitely going to cry in front of all of these people. With Mike out of the way he and Quentin are just staring at each other, both at a loss for what to say. Quentin opens his mouth - but Margo gets there first, curling one arm around Eliot's waist and pulling him against her.

"He's got some nerve, showing up here," she snarls. "Baby, are you okay?"

Eliot's shaking, but he only has eyes for Quentin. "Why did you do that?"

Quentin flushes. "He was making you upset," he says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "And I always regretted not punching him the last time I saw him. But mostly, I - He wasn't leaving you alone, and Margo was on the other side of the room."

"But--" Eliot begins, only to cut himself off when Margo squeezes his hip.

"Not here," she says, and Eliot's panicked tunnel vision finally zooms out so he can see the crowd of onlookers they've attracted. "Upstairs, both of you. _Now_."

Quentin bites his lip, expression unreadable - but he nods, and follows Margo and Eliot out of the crowd. 

Margo takes them up to her own room, which is as close to neutral territory as she can get. Her comforting, familiar scent is like a balm to Eliot's fried nerves, but he's still shaky, still flooded with adrenaline. Out of the way of the crowd, though, his panic quickly becomes anger.

"What the fuck was that?" he demands. It doesn't come out as strong as he would like it to, so he tries again. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Q, I was handling it."

Quentin's expression is stubborn, and he crosses his arms over his chest - but everything about him from his scent to the rest of his posture says it's defensive, not aggressive. "You shouldn't have had to," he says. "You were putting out omega-in-distress all over the place, he should've fucking listened to _that_ if nothing else."

"Oh, so that's why you did it," Eliot says. "Well you can fuck off with your bullshit alpha saviour complex. I'm not actually a weak, whiny omega like Mike seems to think I am."

Quentin stares at him for a moment. "I know you aren't," he says, "but you still shouldn't have had to deal with him, because he should've fucking listened to you. But he didn't, and it was either I got there and punched him, or Margo got there and fucking _killed_ him. I know you rejected me pretty damn thoroughly, Eliot, but I'm pretty sure I know you well enough to know you wouldn't want Margo to literally kill someone for you."

Eliot literally gasps. "I-- _What?_ "

"Oh my god," Margo says.

Quentin's brow furrows, his gaze flicking between them, suddenly uncertain. "What? Would you rather Margo have killed him?"

"You think I _rejected_ you?"

Quentin's shoulders tense, and his gaze drops to the floor. "You tried to give back one of the gifts, Eliot. You know what that usually means."

"A gift that you gave to me out of pity!"

Quentin's gaze snaps back up to Eliot, and he scowls. "No, I _told_ you it wasn't pity, and you still told me to go fuck myself and then tried to give it back!"

"You _told me_ you didn't want me!" Eliot cries.

"When did I - " Quentin cuts himself off, eyes wide. Then he scowls. "No, I didn't! I was _trying_ to tell you I didn't want a fucking drunken hook-up, and then _you_ started going on about how kissing me was a mistake!"

"What the fuck else was I supposed to do after you kissed me and then told me you didn't want to?" Eliot demands. "I wasn't drunk!"

Quentin blinks, taken aback. "What? No, you - You had just as much to drink as I did!"

"I had, like, two drinks," Eliot says, defeated. "To calm my nerves because _you_ were home. The rest were virgin."

Quentin looks like he's just been slapped. "But that - I didn't know that!" he protests. "You didn't say anything, and I - " He blows out a breath, reaching up to run a shaky hand through his hair. "Jules and my dad talked me into finally talking to you - into trying to court you - that morning. I had no idea what I was actually going to say to you, I thought I'd have time to figure that out, and then you _kissed_ me, and I. I had no idea how to react. I wanted to kiss you, I wanted more - but not if it was because you were tipsy, which I thought you were! And when you started saying it was a mistake, asking me to forget it..." Quentin swallows, gaze falling to the floor once more. "I figured you'd just gotten swept up in the whole... New Year's party thing. Then Margo told me to fix it, and I _tried_ but - We all know how that ended."

"Hey, don't blame me because you're a walking clusterfuck," Margo snaps.

"Hang on," Eliot tells her, though his gaze doesn't leave Quentin. "That night... The look on your face. I thought you didn't want it. I thought you didn't want an omega like me."

Quentin lets out a shaky breath. "I didn't want a hookup, and I - I didn't know those drinks were virgin," he says quietly. "You said something about being braver, and then you kissed me, but I - I didn't want to stop, but the last thing I wanted was to do something with you without all my cards on the table. I had no idea how to say that, though. And I couldn't figure it out before you told me you'd made a mistake, and asked me to forget that it had just happened. I wasn't about to chase you down and unload all of my emotions on you when you clearly didn't want to deal with them right then."

"I didn't want to deal with the fact that I'd just ruined our friendship with _my_ emotions," Eliot says.

"I'm going to be sick," Margo mutters.

Quentin ignores her in favor of staring at Eliot, gobsmacked. "What? Then why - Why all the, the talk about - " Eliot can actually see the dots connect, see the moment realization hits as Quentin sucks in a sharp breath, expression turning pained. "You told me to find someone else's emotions to play with. _Eliot._ How the _fuck_ did I ever give you the impression that I played with people's emotions?"

"You told me that you didn't want that with me, but then you started giving me courting gifts," Eliot says. "What was I supposed to think? That you'd had a miraculous change of heart overnight?"

Quentin scrubs both hands over his face. "So we were working at cross-purposes," he mutters. He glances at Eliot again. "When you tried to give back the cologne, I thought - Well. It usually means the gifts were shit, and the giver had absolutely no chance because they clearly didn't know the recipient. I figured _I'd_ fucked up our friendship with my emotions, so I... went and got embarrassingly wine drunk and weepy with Julia, and then tried to suck it up and act normal."

Eliot's mouth twists. "I gave that back because I thought you were trying to say something," he says. "I know I smelled pretty miserable."

"There was nothing _pretty_ about it," Margo snipes.

Quentin gives Margo an exasperated look. "Not helping. Look, I got it because I know how much your privacy meant to you, Eliot. I mean, you told me yourself, you didn't like how people could tell what you were feeling by your scent."

"He hasn't exactly been the most rational," Margo informs Quentin. "He almost killed himself upping his suppressants last week."

"Margo!" Eliot snaps.

Quentin's eyes go wide. " _What?_ "

"It's not important," Eliot says quickly, but Margo thinks differently.

"It's very important. If you do it again, and he's responsible, then I’m giving him a one-way trip to the nearest Hellmouth."

"Margo--"

"He didn't want to feel like shit, so he drugged himself up until he couldn't feel anything. Lipson almost had a stroke when she found out."

Quentin looks stricken now. "El," he breathes. "That - I'm so sorry, I never meant to make you - "

Eliot shoots Margo an acerbic look. "It wasn't just you," he says. "It was Mike, and everyone else."

"I still contributed," Quentin says. "But you - You saw Lipson, you've got a plan, right?"

Eliot shrugs. "She's giving me my meds every day," he says. "Like I couldn't just order them off Amazon, but whatever."

Quentin's gaze flicks to Margo, who is glaring at Eliot. "I think she's counting on your support system to keep that from happening," he says, the joke falling somewhat flat. He shakes his head, blowing out a breath. "I don't - Where do we go from here?"

Eliot's scent spikes with anxiety. "I-- I don't know," he says. "Mike wasn't wrong in there. I'm not a typical omega. I'm not. What alphas look for."

Seemingly aware of the fact that Margo has now transferred her glare to him, Quentin swallows heavily. "I told you that Jules and my dad talked me into trying to court you - talking to you, at least," he says, quiet. "That - They did that because I'm kind of. Pathetically gone on you. And I don't care about _typical omegas;_ I don't want them. I want you."

"But _why?_ " Eliot asks. "Look at me. I'm good for a roll in the sack, but I'm hardly mate material."

Quentin blinks, looking like Eliot just told him that the sky is purple and filled with whales. "You... El," he says, soft. "I'm not Mike. Or any other alpha. I don't care what 'mate material' means; I care about _you_. I want to be with you, see if we're as good together as I think we could be."

"Okay," Margo says, stepping smartly between them. "It's been a long, like, month, and we've all been through a lot today. I don't think either of you are in the right place to have this conversation right now."

Quentin looks like he wants to argue for a moment - but then he sighs. "It _has_ been a rollercoaster today," he concedes, clearly reluctant. He glances back from Margo to Eliot, something soft, tender, in his expression as the corner of his mouth quirks. "At least we finally talked things out? But maybe Margo's right. Shouldn't make any decisions just now."

Eliot's eyes go wide, panicked. "Can we please not go back to avoiding each other?" he asks. "I can't do that again."

"No, no more avoiding," Quentin says, firm. "That fucking _sucked,_ I don't want to do it anymore than you do. But I don't... want to move things faster than you're comfortable with, or like - pressure you or anything. We've talked, I've put my cards on the table, and... If we take this any further, that's up to you. Whenever you're ready to talk about it."

Eliot smiles softly. "Thank you," he says.

"That was very mature of you, Quentin," Margo tells him graciously. "Now off you go."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling as he heads for the door. 

* * *

Eliot spends that night in Margo's room, trying to process... everything. Margo doesn't really speak, but he suspects that's mostly because she's run out of nice things to say to him. Her patience must be wearing thin, and she's never approved of Quentin. Now that Eliot finally knows where they stand, he guesses there's really not a lot she _can_ say.

The next day is awkward. Everyone in the Cottage - hell, the whole school - knows what happened with Mike by now, so once again Eliot is the centre of attention. He does his best to ignore it and focus instead on the fact that he's allowed to talk to Quentin again. That's awkward too, while they get used to being in each other's space again, but it doesn't last as long as the staring and the whispers do. It's fine. Eliot is fine.

That becomes more true the longer he's on the lower dosage of suppressants. Once he's levelled out enough to listen to her, Lipson explains that they'll be enough to keep his heats away but not enough to mask what he is. Apparently it's not healthy long-term to convincingly pass as a beta, and he risks messing up more than the reproductive system he doesn't much care for anyway. Eliot is slowly coming to terms with it. It's not ideal, but people have mostly stopped reacting to the scent of omega all over him, and he's starting to think that maybe being an omega doesn't have to stop him from being who he wants to be.

It takes him two weeks to decide he's ready. He's dressing like himself again, carrying himself with the same easy confidence he always has, and that's going a long way towards getting the rest of the students to get the fuck over themselves. He's feeling a lot more stable emotionally now that his hormones have settled into the new normal, and things with Quentin are good. Settled. Secure.

Their friendship is fine, but Eliot wants more.

He gets in from his afternoon classes that Thursday to find Quentin, Julia, Alice and even Margo hanging out in the living area of the Cottage, and seizes the opportunity. "Starting the party without me, I see," he says, breezing over to stand behind the couch Margo is dominating. He leans over it to kiss the top of her head. "What are we doing?"

"Studying Horomancy," Julia says cheerfully, while Margo scoffs.

" _They're_ studying," Margo says. "I'm painting my nails."

"And doing a magnificent job," Eliot tells her. He kisses her again, and rests his chin on her hair while he peers over at Quentin. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

Quentin raises an eyebrow, giving Eliot a quizzical smile. "I'll be at the party, obviously. Probably in the usual place."

"Wrong," Eliot tells him. "Party's cancelled."

Margo ducks out from under his chin and twists to look up at him. "Well, it's the first I'm hearing of it," she snaps.

"Then I suggest you spread the word," Eliot says. "I don't want anyone in the communal areas tomorrow night."

The other three exchange surprised looks. "Not even other Physical kids?" Alice asks, and there's something shrewd about her tone. 

"No one," Eliot insists, and glances at Quentin. "As long as that's okay?"

Quentin still looks mildly confused, but he shrugs. "Sure. Not like it's a hardship for me to spend the evening in my room," he jokes. Alice and Julia give him near-identical exasperated looks that he doesn't see. 

Eliot just smiles blandly, and starts asking Margo about her choice of nail polish.

* * *

The rest of the Physical kids clear out of the Cottage with only minimal grumbling, which may well be due to the fact that Margo is scary as hell, and Eliot sets about his preparations in peace. He can only go so far before he requires the guest of honour, however, so he sets a few preservation spells over everything he's already prepped and heads upstairs.

Quentin's wards have been set to accept Eliot since right after he moved into the Cottage, and he doesn't think they've ever been changed, but he knocks anyway. "Are you decent?"

"No, I decided I wanted to spend tonight naked," Quentin calls back, sarcasm clear even through the door. There's the sound of movement from the other side, and then the door opens to reveal Quentin dressed in a soft t-shirt and an old, worn pair of jeans. "What's up? I thought you wanted the Cottage to yourself tonight."

"I did," Eliot agrees, smiling. He might feel a little overdressed in his lavender vest and burgundy shirt, grey slacks and a silver tie to complete the ensemble, but this is who he is, and this is who Quentin is. It's perfect. "But then I thought I might like some company. What do you think?"

Quentin's eyes widen, but then he smiles. "Sure. I can always reread _Fillory and Further_ later; not like I don't know how it ends."

"Then come on," Eliot says, stepping back from the door. "Time waits for no Magician, unless he asks really nicely."

Quentin laughs, stepping into the hall, shutting his door behind him. He falls in beside Eliot easily, like he's always been meant to be there. "So, what was so important you had to have Margo chase off half the Cottage?"

"I didn't want them to interrupt," Eliot says. His footsteps are light as he dances down the stairs and leads Quentin into the kitchen. "We've got a big night ahead."

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "How big are we talking, if it's just us?"

"What do you think?" Eliot asks, and gestures to the spread he's already laid out for them. He crosses the kitchen to pull two wine glasses out of a cupboard. "Wine?"

Quentin pauses on the threshold of the kitchen, lips parted as he takes in the sight before him. Eliot half thinks he didn't hear the question, and then Quentin gives himself a shake. "I, um. Yeah, wine sounds - good."

"Red or white?" Eliot asks, ducking to hide a secret smile.

Quentin still sounds overwhelmed as he answers, "You choose."

"White, I think," Eliot decides, and bends to retrieve a bottle from the wine fridge he had installed beneath the counter within a month of living here. "I'm only having one glass, don't worry. I--" He stops when he sees the look on Quentin's face. "Are you okay?"

Quentin blinks, expression shifting from the thoughtful frown it had settled in. When he meets Eliot's gaze, though - He smiles, small and _fond._ "I'm great," he says, honest. "This is - This is amazing, El." Quentin bites his lip, but it can't hide his smile. 

"Well, I'm not done yet," Eliot says archly. He cracks the wine open and pours Quentin a glass, hesitating over the second glass before he pours one for himself, too. "Maybe I'll have two. Who knows? But the steak still needs to be cooked; it's just not the same once it's been spelled."

Quentin laughs quietly, taking the glass Eliot offers him. "And you wanted my company while you cook?"

"I want you to enjoy the fruits of my labour while it's still hot," Eliot says, rolling his eyes. "I'm making a grand romantic gesture, here."

Quentin's smile grows. "I can see that," he says, stepping forward so he can reach out, touch Eliot's arm lightly. "You're going to a lot of effort, and I appreciate it."

Eliot turns to smile down at him, something tender in his expression. "Then sit, drink your wine, and look pretty while I cook your steak to perfection."

Quentin rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but does as he's bid, settling into the chair closest to the kitchen so he can watch Eliot work. "How long did this take you? To come up with the idea, I mean."

Eliot scoffs. The first steak sizzles beautifully as it hits the pan. "I resent that question," he says. "I'm an excellent cook, and an even better host. And I think I know you well enough to know that surf and turf is just the right side of _fancy_ for you."

"I can't decide if I should be offended at that tone," Quentin muses, lifting his glass of wine for a sip, a teasing glint in his eyes. "We weren't all born for five-star restaurants, you know."

Eliot gives him a guilty look over his shoulder. "That isn't what I meant," he says. "I loved everything you gave me. I just... This is what I'm good at. Typical omega: good in the kitchen."

Quentin blinks. "What? No, I - I was poking fun at the way you said 'fancy,' El. Like, that - that's the kind of atmosphere you thrive in, and I... don't do _badly,_ but like, it's not my comfort zone, either. I wasn't implying anything about - about that."

"Oh," Eliot says, and laughs. "I guess I enjoy the finer things in life, but that's only because I never really had access to them until I moved to New York."

Quentin tilts his head, expression curious. "You've never talked much about where you grew up," he says, quietly encouraging. 

"Yeah," Eliot sighs, "that's a conversation for not right now. Dinner's ready."

Quentin lets the subject drop, giving Eliot a smile as he brings the steaks over. "This all looks amazing."

"I should hope so," Eliot says with a smug smile. "I made the Sauce Diane from scratch. It's a personal preference, but I do have a garlic sauce on standby if you'd rather that."

Quentin considers the plate in front of him. "I've never had Sauce Diane," he says, reaching for his fork and knife, "but I'm willing to give it a try."

"It's very rich," Eliot says, "so start slow. But I think you'll like it."

Quentin does, indeed, like the Sauce Diane, though he quickly decides that it's a little _too_ rich for him to want to have too often. He and Eliot settle into an easy, companionable silence as they eat. It's only after Quentin has finished his steak and lobster, and is down to his garlic mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables that he speaks. "So, a grand romantic gesture, huh?" he asks, careful not to speak when Eliot is in danger of choking on either food or wine. 

"Ah," Eliot says, "yes." He reaches for his wine glass and takes a sip. "I'm starting to think that might have to wait, though."

Quentin goes still, looking at Eliot with an unreadable expression. "Wait for what?"

Eliot takes another sip of wine before he sets the glass down. "The day you... punched Mike," he says, a small smile on his lips, "you said something about. All your cards on the table. I think I owe you the same."

Quentin's expression softens. "Okay," he says, quiet and attentive. "I'm listening."

Eliot's gaze drops to his plate, and he starts pushing some mashed potato around his plate. "I grew up on a farm in Indiana," he says. "My family were dirt poor, very religious, and... they fucking hated me."

Quentin makes a sympathetic noise. "You said something about hearing shit about omegas from everyone," he remembers. 

"They were really... 'traditional'." Eliot pulls a face. "All that crap about omegas belonging in the kitchen anytime they're not popping out a kid." He sighs. "You know how rare male omegas are in the normal world. Our church taught that they were unnatural, that they were born sinners. I couldn't exactly do anything about it, but my parents didn't care."

”That’s fucked up,” Quentin blurts, unable to stop himself. He’s scowling. “That - Really? That’s just fucking archaic. Being born a certain way isn’t a reflection of _anything_ about you as a person!”

Eliot shrugs. "I'm able to acknowledge that it probably has a lot to do with why I'm so uncomfortable with people knowing I'm an omega," he says. "I honestly don't know how much of me is actually me anymore, and how much is something I created in order to react against how they saw me."

"The important bits are still you," Quentin says, reaching out to lay his free hand over Eliot's. "Loyal, fierce, caring, smart, proud... That's all you."

"What about aggressive, flamboyant, domineering, _cold_ \--"

Quentin shakes his head. "No," he says. "You aren't aggressive, maybe a little domineering? But _cold?_ Absolutely not; just because you only really care for a few people doesn't mean you're frigid. It just means you don't trust easily, which honestly no one can fault you for."

"I'm an asshole," Eliot says. "I'm not the loving, wholesome omega everyone wants. I'm not submissive. I'm not meek and mild. I'll never be barefoot and pregnant, Q. They beat any part of me that ever wanted that out of me."

Quentin squeezes Eliot's hand gently. "You're the omega _I_ want," he says, quiet. "I happen to like your particular brand of asshole. I am so sorry you grew up like that, but I am so glad I know you now. Also, it's probably kinda early for the kids talk, but - adoption exists, and if we ever decide we want kids, I'd be perfectly happy doing that. Or I'd be happy with just us, if we never decide we want kids."

Eliot squeezes back. "It is early," he agrees, "but I... don't want something casual from you. If any of this is a deal breaker, I'd rather know now."

Quentin smiles, just a quirk of his lips. "You haven't told me much I didn't already figure out myself," he points out. "At least about who you are and what you want. I don't really _do_ casual, El; that's the last thing I want from you."

"Right," Eliot says, smiling down at his plate. "Okay then." He looks up, and turns his smile on Quentin. "So. Grand romantic gesture."

Quentin's smile grows, matches Eliot's. "It's very grand," he agrees. "And very romantic."

Eliot flashes him some teeth. "Wait until dessert," he says. "I just-- I wanted to show you that I'm serious. That I want to put the effort in and make time for you and, okay, maybe prove that I can provide like an omega should. And that's a big fucking deal from me." He holds a hand up so that Quentin can see how it's trembling. "I'm terrified. But I want to be brave for you. With you."

Quentin squeezes the hand he's still holding. "I see that," he says. "And I appreciate it. Really, I do. But you don't need to impress me, El, or prove that you're a good omega. I meant it when I said I was already pretty gone on you before Christmas. I just want _you._ "

Eliot blushes. He can't help it. "Well, excuse me for trying to go the traditional route."

Quentin laughs, not unkindly. "We aren't very traditional, though, are we?"

"Thank God," Eliot agrees, laughing.

Quentin gives Eliot a smile, squeezing his hand again before they return to their meal. They talk a little bit about classes as they finish up, and once their plates are clear, Quentin lets out a happy sigh. "That was really good, El," he praises, giving Eliot a grin. "Very impressive for a grand romantic gesture."

"I told you, dessert is even better," Eliot tells him. "But why don't I set the dishes to washing themselves, and we take it somewhere more comfortable?"

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "Somewhere like...?"

For the first time in his adult life, Eliot loses his nerve. "The couch," he says.

Quentin sounds vaguely amused as he repeats, "The couch. Alright, sure. It _is_ pretty comfortable."

"Get that look off your face," Eliot complains.

Quentin blinks, all wide-eyed innocence. "What look?"

"That," Eliot says, pointing. "All smug and knowing. I'm trying to be a gentleman."

Quentin breaks into a grin like he can't help it. "Sorry, I thought we just got done having a conversation about the fact that you're an asshole?"

Laughter lights up Eliot's eyes. "I'm _trying_ ," he repeats.

"Noted, and appreciated," Quentin tells him, laughing. "Now, where did you _really_ want to go?"

"Upstairs," Eliot admits, laughing. "Really just to be comfortable. I feel like I've been cooking all day, and I don't actually know how long I can hold back the masses.”

When Quentin smiles this time it's soft, tender. "I think that sounds great."

Eliot grins. "My place or yours?"

"We'll probably be left alone in my room," Quentin points out. "Nobody ever bothers me but our friends, and - " Quentin pauses, frowns, and then sighs, giving Eliot a sheepish smile. "And they already figured out what you were planning, didn't they." It isn't a question, and Eliot doesn't answer with anything other than a grin as he summons the covered dish that presumably holds dessert from the refrigerator. 

Quentin grabs a couple of plates and some silverware before they leave the kitchen, dishes cleaning themselves in the sink behind them. Quentin leads the way up the steps to his room, opening the door and holding it for Eliot. "Telekinesis looks so handy," he comments, a little jealous, as he watches Eliot float the dish into the room. "I almost wish that was my discipline."

"We don't know your discipline yet," Eliot points out. "Yours could be way cooler." He settles the dish onto a nightstand and produces a knife. "Lemon meringue is your favourite, right?"

Quentin's eyes widen. "Yes," he says. "Did you - make a lemon meringue pie?"

"What do you think?" Eliot asks, and pulls the cover off the dish. "Grand romantic gesture, remember?"

"Oh my God," Quentin says, with a disbelieving little laugh. "That - looks something straight out of a cookbook. Did you even make the crust from scratch?"

"I'm nothing if not a perfectionist," Eliot says, smiling.

"No, you're a goddamn overachiever," Quentin laughs; when he looks back at Eliot, though, there's something soft in his gaze. "I love it, though - this is amazing, all of it."

"You haven't even tasted it yet," Eliot says, brandishing the knife. "Do you want to do the honours?"

"I'm kind of afraid to mess that up," Quentin confesses, grinning as he gestures at the pie with its picturesque dollop of whipped cream. "But on the other hand, I really want a piece of that pie, so sure, gimme the knife."

Eliot hands it over with a flourish. "Be my guest."

Quentin is careful not to overbalance the pie, or to nick himself with the knife as he cuts out two pieces, depositing them each on their own plates. He puts the cover back over the dish, smiling slightly at the chill of a cooling charm in the metal, before joining Eliot on the bed. Quentin waits until he's fully settled before taking the plate Eliot holds out to him, but he doesn't wait to take his first bite of pie. "Holy _shit,_ " he mumbles, eyes wide. He finishes his bite before continuing, "That is _really_ fucking good."

Eliot hums and takes a bite for himself. "If you haven't realised by now," he says, "I'm a feeder. So there's plenty more where that came from."

Quentin wiggles his eyebrows, unable to help his teasing smirk. "Feeding, huh? Not the kink I thought you'd have."

"Oh darling, I have kinks beyond your wildest dreams."

Quentin snorts so hard it looks like it hurts, still smiling, and the subject is dropped. They don't stop talking, though; on the contrary, their conversation drifts from topic to topic. The two of them speak about everything from idle speculation about Julia, Kady, and Penny's relationship - the trio had yet to have their first big fight, and Quentin worries about how Julia will handle it when they finally do - to discussing potential ideas for Quentin's year to use during the Trials next year, when they get to run the first years through their midterms. The third task is concrete, has been for years, but the first two are fairly flexible. 

Eventually, though, the conversation drifts to a stop, though the silence that settles over Quentin and Eliot, plates levitated safely to sit by the rest of the pie, is anything but uncomfortable. Still, it only lasts for a few moments before Quentin shifts, turning to face Eliot. "Hey," he says, with a quiet little smile. 

Eliot smiles back. "Hey."

"Feel free to say no, no reason needed," Quentin murmurs, "but I'd really like to kiss you. May I?"

Eliot's expression softens. "Yes," he murmurs.

The corner of Quentin's mouth quirks, and then he leans in, slow and careful, and closes the scant distance between them to take Eliot's mouth in a soft kiss. 

Eliot sighs into his mouth, one hand sliding around the back of his neck to hold him close so that he can coax him into another kiss, and another. Quentin goes easily, willing to let the kisses drag on, blend into one another until he finally has to pull away just to breathe. " _Fuck,_ " he sighs, smiling. His own hands are braced on Eliot's shoulders, and he lets one slide up to card his fingers through Eliot's curls. "That was - so much better than I hoped."

Eliot smiles and squeezes the back of Quentin's neck. "A lot better than our first attempt," he agrees. 

Quentin returns the smile, ducking in for another kiss. "I'm glad we're finally on the same page," he murmurs. 

Eliot bumps their noses together. "God, me too. I think Margo was ready to kill both of us."

"Oh, I _know_ she was," Quentin laughs. "At the very least, she was ready to kill me. Probably the only thing holding her back was worrying about how you'd take that."

"Well, she'll have to get over it now," Eliot says. "It's important to me that you two get along."

Quentin's expression softens again, and his fingers run through Eliot's hair in a gentle motion. "I know," he says, quieter this time. "And I promise, I'll do my best not to provoke her."

"It's her with the problem," Eliot says, "I'm aware she has to give up the most ground. I'll talk to her. Later." He sighs, pushes into Quentin's touch like a cat. "But for now, if you could keep playing with my hair..."

Quentin chuckles, leaning in for another kiss - but, as requested, his hand never stops moving through Eliot's hair. 

* * *

Eliot does, presumably, talk to Margo, but not much changes; she doesn't antagonize Quentin, and she _does_ stop glaring at him, but they still aren't friendly, which clearly annoys Eliot. There's not much Quentin can do about that, however - and when he gets a note from the office about a phone call from his father, he decides that maybe he can do something _else_ for Eliot. He tucks the note into his pocket, and waits until they're settled in bed for the night - they've started spending more nights together, still without sex, but Quentin's never slept better - before he pulls it out. "So," he says. "Dad called campus today. Wanted to invite me to the city for dinner Saturday night."

"Oh," Eliot says, pleasantly neutral. "Well, I guess I have been keeping you to myself lately. Of course you should go."

Quentin hums a little noise, and then takes a deep breath. "I was actually wondering if... you wanted to come with me? You don't have to stay for the whole meal, you could just like. Drop me off and then come back to campus or hang out in the city or something and I'll meet up with you when we're done and we can come back to campus."

"So you're asking me to be your escort back to campus," Eliot says. He sounds strange.

"I'm, um. Well, I'm asking if you want to meet my dad," Quentin says. "Like I said, you don't need to stay for dinner, and you can say no to the whole thing if you want to, I'm not trying to pressure you or anything."

Eliot's eyes widen, just a fraction. "You want me to meet your dad," he repeats. "Does your dad know I'm... meetable?"

"He and Julia convinced me to try to court you," he reminds Eliot. "I, um. Didn't go into specifics, but I did tell him when we finally got ourselves sorted out."

"Does he know what to expect?" Eliot presses, and if Quentin didn't know him better, he might think he was anxious.

Quentin gives Eliot a reassuring smile. "Yeah," he says. "He does. And he doesn't care; he just wants me happy."

"We'll see how he feels about that once he actually meets me," Eliot grumbles.

Quentin rolls his eyes, poking Eliot gently in the chest. “Honestly, he’ll probably try to adopt you within the first four meetings,” he says. “He’s a sucker for anyone in need of a family; should have seen the number of strays he brought in while I was growing up. And I kind of, maybe, didn’t shut up about you during the entire winter break, so. There’s that, too.”

Eliot snorts. "Just how much time did we waste?"

"Far too much," Quentin sighs, though he's smiling. "But we got there eventually."

"Yeah," Eliot says, reaching for Quentin's hand and lacing their fingers together, "I guess we did." He smiles. "I'd love to meet your dad."

Quentin _beams._ "Great. You don't have to stay for dinner, or any longer than you want, but - It means a lot to me, that you want to meet him, too."

"Let's just see how it goes," Eliot says with a fond smile.

* * *

Quentin calls his dad the next day to let him know that Quentin will meet him for dinner - and that he'll be bringing Eliot, though Eliot hasn't decided if he wants to stay for dinner yet. Ted assures him that he'll be as cool as a cucumber, which Quentin doubts. He's not stupid enough to _voice_ those doubts, though; that's a sure-fire way to make his dad embarrass him just to prove a point. 

The rest of the week passes without incident, and Saturday afternoon finds Quentin bemusedly changing outfits three times until Eliot is satisfied with his appearance, despite Quentin's protestations that they're just going to Olive Garden. He doesn't protest _too_ much, however, conscious of the restless movement of Eliot's hands that mean he's a little nervous, that he wants a drink or a smoke to distract himself with. Quentin lets him fidget and fuss until he's finally satisfied, and then they head out. 

The portal from campus dumps them a couple of streets away from the restaurant, and they take their time walking over, hand-in-hand. Quentin still marvels at the fact that he gets to do this; it's still a novelty, and he doesn't think he'll ever get over being allowed to _touch._

Ted is waiting for them in front of the restaurant, and his expression lights up when he spots Quentin and Eliot. "Curly Q!" he cries, stepping forward to meet Quentin halfway, hauling him in for a hug. "Kept me waiting long enough!"

"We are right on time, Dad," Quentin says, rolling his eyes with a fond smile as his dad waves a dismissive hand. 

"I've been waiting for fifteen minutes, you know I don't know city traffic like you do. Now, introduce me!"

Quentin's smile grows. "Dad, this is Eliot. Eliot, this is my dad, Ted."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Coldwater," Eliot says politely. He offers Ted his hand.

Ted practically beams as he takes Eliot's hand. "It's good to meet you, too, son; Quentin hasn't shut up about you all year. Good to see he finally made good on that promise he made me on New Year's Eve."

Eliot chuckles. "In all fairness to Quentin," he says, "he would have made good on it a lot sooner if I wasn't such an idiot."

Ted snorts. "That's kind of you to say, but I know my son. He hasn't told me everything that happened, but I can guess that at least half of it was his fault."

"I guess I can't argue with that," Eliot concedes. "Still, we got there in the end."

Ted nods. "That's the important part," he agrees. "So, are we keeping you from any kind of adventures in the city tonight, or do you want to join us for relatively cheap, borderline fake Italian food?"

Eliot knows an out when he sees one - but he glances between Quentin and his father, considering. "Actually, fake Italian food sounds perfect."

Ted grins. "Great! Come on, then; I already asked them to save a table for us, should be ready any minute now."

Eliot follows them into the restaurant, and takes the seat next to Quentin when it's offered to him. A waiter comes over to them almost straight away, and they order without fuss. Eliot selects a wine from the list and doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow when Ted asks for a beer. Quentin squeezes his knee beneath the table, so Eliot knows he appreciates it.

"So," Eliot says lightly, sipping delicately from his wine glass. "Something tells me you have plenty of embarrassing stories about Quentin stacked up."

Quentin groans, dropping his head into his hands, and Ted grins. "Oh, I have _many_ stories," he agrees. "What do you want to know?"

Eliot grins. "Anything that won't make him literally die at the table."

Ted considers that for a moment before he snaps his fingers. "How about the first time he broke his nose? Also the story of how he met Julia."

" _Dad,_ " Quentin complains. 

"Oh, hush. That's nowhere near the most embarrassing story I have on you, but it is one of the cutest." Ted stares his son down until Quentin shakes his head, giving in with a slight smile. "Alright," Ted says gleefully, "so. First: Have you seen how protective he can get over his friends? I assume you have, but I want to know what sort of protective things he's done."

"I have some idea," Eliot says cheerfully. "He punched another alpha for me a few weeks ago."

Quentin flushes, and Ted barks a laugh. "Well, that does sound like Q," he chuckles. "Now, this was... Oh, back in first - No, second grade, Julia's family moved into the area when you were in second grade. So, in second grade, Quentin was already known for being a little shy, but a good kid. Reading way ahead of the rest of his classmates, but luckily his teacher made sure he did a little bit of socializing, too. Anyway, about a month before Christmas break that year, it was one of the rare nice days when the teachers could let the kids go out to the playground and run around so they weren't being little hellions in the classroom all day. One of them in particular, boy by the name of Dylan, was already well on the way to being a full-blown bully, and he was picking on Jason, one of the kids Q liked."

"He was one of the only ones who didn't make fun of me for reading so much," Quentin explains. "We still didn't _talk_ a lot, but he was nice."

Ted nods. "Jason had a cast on his left hand, after a fall down some slippery steps at school, so he had to write and do everything with his right hand. Not a big deal, except that he's left-handed. So Dylan was picking on Jason, making fun of his handwriting and general clumsiness since he'd only had the cast on for two days, and Curly Q decides that enough is enough, and tells Dylan to shove off."

Quentin sighs, a slight smile on his face. "No, I didn't. I told him to fuck off, because Granddad never did learn to watch his mouth around the grandkids."

Eliot snorts. "Oh, Jesus."

"Oh, it gets better," Quentin assures him. 

"Indeed it does," Ted snickers. "Obviously, Dylan didn't take very kindly to that, and this all went down by the swing set, so when he shoved Quentin, Quentin tripped and face-planted into one of the support poles. Ended up busting his nose on that, bled all over the place. But Quentin didn't start crying, he just started yelling at Dylan - and then Julia showed up, said she saw what Dylan did, and he needed to quit picking on people. He tried to shove her, too, but she dodged, and Quentin..." Ted trails off, giving Quentin an expectant look. 

Quentin sighs, but he's smiling. "I tripped him right into the pole I'd just broken my nose on. He hit it with the side of his face, got a black eye. The teacher didn't see what happened, but when she asked us, me, Jason, and Julia all said he pushed me into the swings, and then tried to do the same to Jules, but she dodged and he tripped. His word against three others; he ended up having to sit next to the teacher for the next week at lunch, since this wasn't the first time he'd been caught bullying kids."

"My firecracker," Eliot laughs. "I somehow thought it would be Julia picking all the fights."

"I wasn't 'picking a fight'!" Quentin protests, but he's laughing, too. "He was being an asshole, and _he_ \- " Quentin gestures across the table to his father " - told me that I shouldn't let people get away with that sort of thing."

"So you were picking a fight," Eliot says, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"No, I was standing up for someone, there's a difference," Quentin sniffs, affecting a haughty air.

Ted snorts. "Maybe he wasn't picking a fight _that_ time, but I've got a lot of stories of times he did actually pick fights. Usually he was still standing up for someone, but sometimes he was just being a brat."

"Oh, I am very familiar with how much of a brat Q can be," Eliot assures him.

Quentin huffs. "You two are mean," he decides, expression vaguely pouty. "I might go eat somewhere else if you keep this up."

"Oh, love," Eliot says, soft and indulgent. "I'm sorry. I think you're wonderful, even if you are a brat."

Quentin considers that for a moment, ignoring his father's poorly-concealed snickering, before he sighs. "Apology accepted," he says magnanimously, leaning in to bump Eliot's shoulder gently with his own. 

"Jesus," Ted chuckles. "You two are something else. Alright, enough embarrassing Quentin, then; how's school been going? You're a year ahead of Quentin, aren't you, Eliot?"

"Yes," Eliot says, embracing the change of subject. "Second year of finance. I'm loving it."

"Finance, huh?" Ted gives Eliot an appraising look. "You don't particularly look like a finance major."

Eliot waves a hand. "It's a passion of mine," he says. "You don't look this good without a good handle on your financial situation. I wish to... share the wealth, as it were."

Ted nods. "So, are you a native of the big city?"

"Uhh, no," Eliot says. "In my heart I am, though."

"So, did you move a long way? Or are you like Quentin, moved to one of the closest cities you could be in without staying with your parents?"

"Oh, quite the opposite, actually," Eliot says, fighting for casual. "I moved as far away as I could."

Ted lets the subject drop for the moment. "So, you're in your second year; how'd you meet Q, then? He told me something about running into you on the first day of classes last semester."

Eliot relaxes a fraction. "I was his guide," he says, smiling. "The faculty thought he might get a little lost. So they sent me to intercept him, show him around."

Ted hums thoughtfully. "And do you usually play tour guide?"

"Quentin was my first," Eliot says, chuckling. "And hopefully my only. I don't think I was very good at it."

"Considering you brought Margo over to ambush me right after, I have to agree," Quentin says, teasing. 

"You were cute," Eliot says, unashamed. "I had a huge crush on you from the start and I needed her approval."

"Did you ever get it?" Ted asks, curious. 

Quentin shrugs. "Insofar as she isn't trying to tell me to stay away or she'll castrate me," he says. "She's protective, I can't blame her. I mostly just try to stay out of her way for the moment."

"I'm working on it," Eliot says. "She's not used to sharing."

"Is she like your Julia, then?" Ted asks. 

"Oh, definitely," Eliot agrees. "Just with a few more teeth."

"No, I just think her teeth are a bit more obvious," Quentin laughs. 

"Julia is goddamn devious and _ruthless,_ " Ted agrees. He pauses to thank their waiter when they bring the food out, and then continues, "There was one time in freshman year, right after Q presented as an alpha..."

The rest of their dinner passes relatively easily. The conversation winds around various topics, with only a few awkward pauses when Ted stumbles too close to the subjects of either magic or Eliot's family. They don't linger too long after the food is done, but after Ted pays for the meal - at his own insistence - and they leave, he gets a considering look on his face. "So, this ended up being... illuminating," he says, ignoring the look that Quentin shoots him. "I'm glad you stuck around for dinner, Eliot."

"So am I," Eliot tells him genuinely. "It's been great getting to know you."

"Will Quentin get to know your family?" Ted asks, his casual tone belied by the sharpness of his gaze, watching Eliot carefully. "Maybe over summer break, since they live so far away?"

"Oh." Eliot barks out a harsh laugh. "Ugh, no. God no. I would never subject Quentin to that."

Ted tilts his head. "To the journey or your family?" he asks, questioning without being too pushy. Quentin recognizes the tone from the time after his first hospital visit; Ted had had to perfect it pretty quickly. 

Eliot's jaw twitches, and his expression shutters. "My family."

Ted’s own expression softens. “Well,” he says, “you’re more than welcome to come visit Q’s family any time you want. Not much more than me, but I’d be glad to see you again, give you an excuse to get off campus.”

Eliot smiles, though it's tight around the edges. "That's very kind of you."

"I mean it," Ted says. He makes an aborted movement, like he was about to reach out and clasp Eliot's shoulder, but thought better of it. "You're a good man, Eliot. And you're a good influence on Q; I know it's outdated, and doesn't really matter - or apply, exactly, in this situation - but I approve. I think you two are gonna be good for each other."

Eliot's smile softens into something more sincere, and he ducks his head a little. "I really hope so," he says. "He definitely brings out the best in me."

Quentin gives Eliot a soft smile, reaching out to take his hand and give it a squeeze. "Thanks, Dad," he says. "That means a lot."

Ted smiles, and if it's a little wobbly, neither of them call him on it. "Come here, give me a hug before you head back to campus," he says, stepping forward and opening his arms. Quentin goes easily, readily, and when they pull apart, Ted looks to Eliot. "You can have a hug, too. Or a handshake, whichever you prefer."

Eliot does hesitate, but then he shrugs and steps forward. "What the hell? I'm a hugger."

Ted beams, and pulls him in. 

* * *

Quentin and Eliot get back to campus not-too-late, and Eliot makes his way to the bar to check on the stock while Quentin ducks back out, heading across campus to meet Julia for a study session. Eliot reels Quentin in for one last kiss before he goes, and when he turns back to the bar after watching Quentin leave, he sees Margo waiting for him. “So, he’s still behaving himself?” Margo asks, expression and voice equally tight.

"He just took me to Olive Garden to meet his dad," Eliot says, sardonic. "He's the perfect gentleman."

"Isn't it a little soon to be meeting the family?"

"Maybe a little," Eliot allows, "but it's not like I can return the gesture, and we both know we're serious. Why not?"

"'Why not'?" Margo echoes, rolling her eyes. "That's a great attitude, El. Really sounds like you're serious."

Eliot's jaw tightens. "I am serious," he says. "So is Quentin. I wouldn't be going into something like this again if I wasn't sure - and you're the one who told Quentin to do something about it in the first place. You can't interfere and then get mad at me when it works."

"He did something and then _fucked it up,_ " Margo snaps. "He fucked it up so badly you felt the need to drug yourself to the goddamn ceiling. I'm not mad at _you,_ I still don't trust him, that he'll be _different_ enough to actually be good for you."

"That was a huge misunderstanding that was only blown further out of proportion by my own _trauma_." Eliot spits the word out like it disgusts him. "He's making it right. He's _made_ it right. Bambi, I-- I love him."

That pulls Margo up short. "What?"

Eliot looks just as surprised as she is, but he drops his voice and repeats himself. "I love him," he says. "I'm in love with him. I have been for... God. I don't know. It doesn't matter. We're together and we're happy, and I need you to get on board."

Margo still looks conflicted, but Eliot can read the growing hesitancy in her expression. "How am I supposed to trust him with you?" she asks. "No offense, honey, but if he fucks up again and you _love_ him, it'll destroy you. It nearly did before."

"I know," Eliot says, deadly serious. "But Bambi, I saw something tonight. His dad is... just like him. He's not like a typical alpha. He's soft, and kind, and a little awkward. I really don't think Q could hurt a fly, not on purpose. He wasn't raised that way."

Margo raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

Eliot huffs, frustrated. "I know you're not going to take my word for this," he says, "but will you just... look at him? Will you watch us together, and put aside all of the bullshit alpha posturing and actually _see_ him for once?"

Margo hesitates, and then heaves a great sigh. "Alright," she says. "I will... _try_ to see what you mean. And I won't do any 'posturing' unless he starts being a cock again."

Eliot rolls his eyes. It's the best he's going to get. "Thank you."

* * *

True to her word, Margo leaves Quentin alone that night, and the next day. She watches him, thoughtful, but she doesn't approach him. Saturday night, she doesn't mingle the way she usually does, instead keeping most of her attention on Quentin and Eliot, watching the way the two of them move around each other. They orbit each other, coming closer together and drifting apart, but they never lose track of each other. Eliot spends the first part of the night at the bar, and Quentin hangs out with him. They talk and laugh, and Margo realizes with a start, somewhere around an hour in, that she has _never_ seen Eliot's shoulders that relaxed when he wasn't high. She's never seen him so _at ease,_ really and truly, not the facade they both project to the rest of the world. 

Quentin leaves the bar a little while later, trading a kiss for a drink to take with him to his usual nook, which already has a book waiting for him. He settles in, but every so often he glances up, checking on Eliot - and Eliot looks at him just as often. When the crowd begins to settle, and the bar becomes less of a hotspot, Eliot wanders over to Quentin with two drinks in his hands, and they settle in together, Quentin readily lifting up his book for Eliot to drape his legs across his lap. 

Margo watches them for the rest of the night, just to be sure - but she knows how she needs to proceed by the time Quentin makes his way upstairs, Eliot lingering to wipe down an already-spotless bar. She takes a deep breath, and makes her way through the stragglers. Once she's seated, she says, "Alright, I'm only going to say this once. You were right about him, and I was wrong."

Eliot doesn't even have the good grace to give her a dramatic reaction. He just smiles a small, private smile and says, "I know."

Margo doesn't fight the urge to roll her eyes. "I'm not going to be his best friend," she warns him. "Because you're my main priority. But I won't try to run him off anymore."

Eliot laughs at that. "Give it time," he says. "He grows on you. He'll worm his way into your affections eventually."

"That's a lovely mental image," Margo says, rolling her eyes again, harder than before. "We'll see."

Eliot turns from the bar and pulls her into his arms. He takes a moment to breathe her in, and kisses the top of her head. "Thank you," he says. "This means the world to me."

Margo wraps her arms around him without hesitation. "I know. I won't apologize for taking so long to come around, and you know why. Not just the alpha stuff, but the - " She wrinkles her nose " - other stuff."

Eliot chuckles softly into her hair. "I know," he soothes her. "Tonight must have been awful for you."

"Absolutely horrible," Margo agrees, tilting her head back so she can give Eliot a pout. "You know how much I hate introspection and deep thinking about anything but destroying my enemies."

"There is rarely another cause as worthy of your attention," Eliot concedes.

Margo's pout shifts into a smirk. "Damn right," she agrees, giving Eliot one last squeeze before she takes a step back. "Go on upstairs with Coldwater. The bar's spotless, I'll make sure no one messes it up before these last few stagger out."

"You angel," Eliot says. He kisses her one last time and rounds the bar. "Goodnight, Bambi."

Quentin is already in bed by the time Eliot makes it up to their room, because of course he is. The bedside lamp is on, and he's propped up against the pillows, reading a different book to the one he was reading downstairs. A gentle smile lifts the corner of Eliot lips: this man has books everywhere.

"Hey," he murmurs softly, lingering in the doorway when Quentin doesn't so much as look up at his entrance. "Am I interrupting?"

"Nope," Quentin hums, turning a page. "Just trying to finish this chapter before we go to sleep."

Eliot smiles, fond, and steps further into the room so that he can start getting undressed. "Well, let me know when you're done," he says. "I have news."

That catches Quentin's attention; slipping his finger in between the pages to hold his place, he looks up at Eliot. "'News'?" he echoes. 

Eliot smiles at him. "It's good news," he promises. "Margo has finally given us her blessing."

Quentin blinks, then grins. "Really? So I don't have to worry about her glaring daggers at the back of my head all the time?"

"I guess not," Eliot says, laughing. "At least not quite as much."

Quentin chuckles, watching Eliot with an appreciative eye as he finishes undressing. "I'm glad, though. Not for me, so much. For you; I know her attitude was upsetting you."

Eliot raises his eyebrows, pleased, and crawls up the bed towards Quentin. "I just want my two favourite people to get along," he says. "Is that really too much to ask?"

"When one of them's as stubborn as Margo Hanson?" Quentin teases, marking his place and setting his book aside for he can make space for Eliot. "It came close."

"Well, I won't stand for it," Eliot tells him seriously. He presses himself into Quentin's arms, but doesn't kiss him, not yet. "If she hadn't come around on her own, I was going to do something drastic."

"Something like what?" Quentin asks, curious. 

"I hadn't actually got that far," Eliot admits. "But luckily I won't have to. My two favourite alphas will be the best of friends in no time."

Quentin snorts, but he's still smiling. " _That_ might be too much to ask. Julia will fight her for the title of my best friend."

"You can have more than one," Eliot sniffs, put out.

"Yeah, but they have to be pretty special," Quentin hums, leaning in so he can brush his lips over Eliot's cheek. "I mean, in a different way from you. You're special, but you're _mine._ Not just my friend."

Eliot feels himself go boneless against Quentin. He can't help it, even if he wanted to; there's no way his suppressants are strong enough to hide the way his scent goes warm and sweet with pleasure. "Is that so?" he asks, turning his head just enough to finally press his mouth to Quentin's.

Quentin smiles into the next kiss, humming an affirmative. "Long as I'm yours, too."

"Of course you are," Eliot murmurs. He reaches up to run his fingers through Quentin's hair. "My alpha."

Quentin's still smiling, even as his eyes slide closed and he tugs Eliot in for another kiss. " _My_ omega," he murmurs. 


End file.
